TolkienScribe's Scribblings: LoTR
by TolkienScribe
Summary: Stories of varying lengths published together when they are not worthy to be published separately. All characters. All genres. Ratings from K to T. Do not own. Always In-Progress. New updates in order: Imrahil, Elladan, Eowyn, Glorfindel, Faramir, Aragorn, Elfwine and many others!
1. Faramir

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Rating:** From K to T.

 **Further word:**

-Canonic Pairings.

-Characters from Lord of The Rings.

-Chapters are of varying lengths.

-May or may not be connected to my other stories (Green Leaves Universe).

-Author's Notes will be short, concise to clear the purpose behind each chapter.

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

 **Faramir**

The word 'fledgling' was an insult.

It was an informal term for newly recruited Rangers, just as 'raven' was the word for an experienced Ranger. The man passing in front of Faramir and his comrades was sprightly for someone in his fifties. He was also spewing insults at every man he passed by until he reached Faramir.

It took everyone in the Citadel and beyond by surprise when Faramir decided to join the Rangers. Usually the sons of the Stewards of old went on to knighthood. But Faramir opted for the Rangers. Denethor was surprised, wary but not displeased. He didn't say it, but Faramir thought he didn't need to. His father was a man of few words. He managed to convey his thoughts to those around him just by varying degrees of silence. In the case of his decision, his father's silence was more thoughtful.

"It isn't what most Stewards choose in their youth," his father had said at last. "But if your heart desires then by all means, do so. Maybe it will be for the best. But remember it will not be easy. Men will resent your for your higher rank, and it will take you time to befriend them, just as it took Boromir time. And remember in the end, you are their leader, not their friend."

Sometimes Faramir wondered if his father ever heard himself give advice. A part of his advice sounded like it came from him as it would come from a father, the other part sounded like it came from a ruler polishing his sword for battle and power. Still his father loved him and that was the best way he could show his love.

"And you," the man sneered, bringing his face right in front of Faramir's own. The man smelled of smoke but underneath it he had a clean earthy scent of the forest. "If you think you could grace yourself with your high presence in our low lot then remember this, fledgling, everyone has the same level underground."

Faramir made no reply but held his eyes. He kept strength in his gaze, but no challenge. Boromir often wondered how he knew the best response but to Faramir it came simply as instinct. The man finally broke his gaze and stepped away.

It turned out later that the man was a raven who cowed even the hardiest of Rangers, but held in great respect among the high officers. He never became an officer, nor did he want to for his own reasons, but Faramir's manners around him were legendary. He was fond of the cane that he used to whack fledglings on tardiness, foolishness and everything else in short. But the man grudgingly kept his hand off his cane when it came to Faramir. They all knew Denethor had nothing to do with it. The Steward kept a disinterested and impassive air when it came to whatever punishment the officers handed out his sons.

The months passed and they found a wolf cub abandoned from its pack. It was vicious for a thing so small. It snapped at anyone who came close, bit hard on an unsuspecting Ranger's body where it hurt the most. It was wounded, so it could not survive the wild without help and they decided to kill it.

"Don't," Faramir said, stopping a comrade's longbow from releasing. A familiar cane hit him hard on his knuckles but Faramir refused to let go. "Let me try."

The cub snarled at him, bit his fingers and scratched him till it drew blood. So it went on till it grew into a bad-tempered wolf, but now the teeth and claws were meant for anyone Faramir deemed enemy.

"Well, I'll be," this was the first time Faramir heard wonder in the raven's voice who mocked him the first day as a Ranger. He tapped his cane on his boot. "You have a way, fledgling, with man and beast. It is a skill I have not seen in my entire life but was spoken of in history."

"Father possesses the same skill," Faramir said mildly, ignoring the wolf curled about his waist on the ground. He bent his knees and wrapped his hands about it. The man scoffed.

"The Lord Steward possesses the skill with only men, but not with beast." The raven picked up his cane and Faramir momentarily tensed. Sensing his mood, the wolf emitted a low warning growl but the man only pressed the end of his cane against Faramir's chest, right on top of his heart. "Take care of that heart, boy." The man said. "That heart is the reason why man and beast love you."

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 **Author's Note:**

-Glimpse in the military part of Faramir's life.

-Glimpse in his personality.

-Characterisation of Denethor.

 **Do leave a review. :)**


	2. Frodo

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

 **Enjoy! :)**

* * *

 **Frodo**

 _One evening, Sam came into the study and found his master looking very strange. He was very pale and his eyes seemed to see things far away._

 _"What's the matter, Mr Frodo?" said Sam._

 _"I am wounded," he answered, "wounded; it will never fully heal."_

 _*.*_

 _Time went on, and 1421 came in. Frodo was ill again in March, but with great effort he concealed it, for Sam had other things to think about. The first of Sam and Rosie's children was born on the twenty-fifth of March, a date that Sam noted._

 _(Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King)_

 _(Both excerpts from Chapter: The Grey Havens)_

He knew why he was ill. The day when Shelob poisoned him always brought upon him sickness. He rubbed his face wearily and quietly covered the food Rose had painstakingly put together for him. She didn't know of his ill health and he made no effort to enlighten her. She fussed when Sam wasn't there to do so. He tried to make her rest, heavy with child as she was, but she waved away his concerns. Their worry for him was greater. In truth, he was not fatally ill. The fever passed eventually. He laughed, and smiled, and took part in merrymaking, but he simply felt weary, like he needed rest that eluded him.

The wound never fully healed, and the poison never fully left his body. Being ill on the same day as he had been in the year before meant this would recur every year, probably for the rest of his life. The door opened and Sam came in. His face was light with joy and a bundle of blankets rested in his arms.

"It's a girl, Mister Frodo," Sam said happily. Frodo remained seated and smiled up to his old friend. He parted the blankets carefully and looked down at the new born, fast asleep in her father's arms. Her cheeks were rosy red with small pink lips puckered outwards and a tuft of brown hair on her head.

"She's beautiful, Sam." Frodo said, smiling and briefly forgetting his illness.

This was what they fought for.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-A quiet moment in the Shire is never remiss.

 **Guest Reviews:**

 **Iris:** Thank you! I hope you continue to enjoy this little project of mine.


	3. Imrahil

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Imrahil**

 _When Denethor became Steward he proved a masterful lord, holding the rule of all things in his own hand. He said little. He listened to counsel, and then followed his own mind. He had married late, taking as wife Finduilas, daughter of Adrahil of Dol Amroth._

 _*.*_

 _Denethor loved her, in his fashion, more dearly than any other…._

 _(Lord of the Rings: Appendix A)_

He was too old for her, Imrahil thought with worry building in his chest.

He did not approve his father's choice for his sister Finduilas' husband. Then again, one cannot simply refuse the proposal of the Steward's son. And Finduilas' rank as princess made the match more than worthy. But Finduilas was so different in manner from Denethor!

Finduilas was young and lively, full of smiles and easy grace, happy with the free life by the Sea. But Denethor was grim, silent and a man of few words and many thoughts. His mouth was often set in solemn straight line and the man clearly aged before his time.

"Take good care of her," Imrahil said suddenly. The wind blew on their faces where they both stood on the balcony. Denethor wordlessly turned and regarded him, his cloak whipping about him. As expected, the Steward's son said nothing. But at the last moment he inclined his head.

There was the sound of the doors opening and Finduilas entered the hall clutching the arm of her father. They reached her future husband and she swept into a low curtsy.

The gentle smile on Denethor's face eased Imrahil's fears somewhat.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-A man of few words is often heard through his actions.

-Denethor may have harboured love for Finduilas that was more hidden.

-It may be obvious through his regard for her and the change in his manner after her death.


	4. Cirdan

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

 **Enjoy!**

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 **Círdan**

 _As they came to the gates Círdan the Shipwright came forth to greet them. Very tall he was, and his beard was long, and he was grey and old, save that his eyes were keen as stars…_

 _(Lord of the Ring: Return of the King)_

 _(Chapter: The Grey Havens)_

 _*.*_

 _Later Círdan surrendered his (ring) to Mithrandir. For Círdan saw further and deeper than any other in Middle-earth, and he welcomed Mithrandir to the Grey Havens, knowing whence he came and whither he would return. "Take this ring, Master," he said, "for your labours will be heavy; but it will support you in the weariness you have taken upon yourself. For this is the Ring of Fire, and with it you may rekindle heart in a world that grows chill. But as for me, my heart is with the Sea, and I will dwell by the grey shows until the last ship sails, I will await you."_

 _(Lord of the Rings: Appendix B)_

Silence fell between them. Círdan did not mind. The song of the seagulls was sweet to his ears and the wind was a breeze flowing inland. Some did not understand his love for the Sea. They found the air humid, the smell of salt difficult to breathe and the weather treacherous when the waves tossed and turned. But this was what he loved from the beginning ever since he set eyes on the mass of water that changed colours according to its mood.

"Your realm is calm and peaceful, Cirdan," Mithrandir said. "You have laboured hard on it."

"And it is great joy to see the fruits of my labour."

Mithrandir had aged since Círdan set eyes on him last. The Maia was capable of looking fair if he so wished but before him he wore the garbs of an old man, who seemed to age as time passed by. An old man he would have been mistaken for if it wasn't for his sharp eyes and the spring in his step. Mithrandir raised his hand, uncovering the Ring of Fire that still lay on the table between them.

"Do you wish to give this to me?" Mithrandir asked. "Think again! Perhaps you might have more need of it than I in the future."

But Círdan shook his head.

"You need no hope on the ships at Sea." He said. "My people and I put our trust on the Valar for our wellbeing."

"And what of Thranduil, new king of Greenwood the Great? Do you not believe that he needs the ring more than I?" Mithrandir said with a brow raised. "This ring with its brethren was meant for Elves and yet here you offer it to Maia."

But Círdan shook his head.

"Of Thranduil I have no worry. That Elf is strong and bold and his people love him dearly. He needs not the Ring of Fire where the hopes of his people are bright and kindled. Keep it! Your travels will take you far and wide and more than once I believe you will need to put fire in the hearts of Men, Dwarves and Elves. Nay, the Ring is suited for your endeavours. Had I believed that Thranduil was more suited, it would have been him to receive the Ring."

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 **Author's Note:**

-It begs the curiosity as to why Thranduil was not given the ring while the others were bestowed on Elves.

-This is my personal take on it.

-Since Cirdan the Shipwright was considered as someone who saw far into the future, he might have had a lot of faith in Thranduil.

-Mithrandir, on the other hand, was famous for his travelling and bringing counsel at the worst of times.

 **If possible, do leave a review. :)**


	5. Imrahil 1

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Imrahil**

 _Thorongil men called him in Gondor, the Eagle of the Star, for he was swift and keen-eyed, and wore a silver star upon his cloak; but no one knew his true name nor in what land he was born._

 _*.*_

 _He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays, and then he withdrew his fleet with small loss. But when they came back to Pelargir, to men's grief and wonder, he would not return to Minas Tirith, where great honour awaited him. 'He sent a message of farewell to Ecthelion, saying: "Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate."_

 _(Lord of the Rings: Appendix A)_

Imrahil regarded him with deep seated suspicion.

"Just Thorongil?" He asked. The man smiled and nodded.

No father-name, no mother-name; either he was an orphan or he was hiding his true parentage. He was a sellsword. The Steward and his father thought well of him. He didn't. It soon became clear Thorongil was hiding who he was. His speech was well-versed in languages, etiquettes and lore. He did not behave as other sellswords often did, but kept far from unseemly companion. He answered most questions with a cryptic smile, so Imrahil stopped asking.

He had a Númenórean look about him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with black shaggy hair reaching his shoulders and a beard he kept neat and tidy. His clothes were old, but cleaned and well-patched. Imrahil found that the money he received for his service he gave to orphans and widows and lived on bare necessities. He left quite unexpectedly. The men returned, sharing tales of Thorongil's valour and leadership. Imrahil found his rooms empty of his belongings, what little money left behind given to the orphans.

"A pity he left so suddenly," the Steward said sorrowfully. "He was a good friend and as good as ally as Gondor could get." But Denethor was relieved, although he did not give it voice.

The years passed and the mystery of Thorongil faded from their minds when more pressing matters took their time and energy. Until Imrahil found himself standing face to face a man with the face from the ghost of his past with Minas Tirith burning and at siege.

Imrahil stared at the man who claimed to be king with a mixture of relief and shock. He was relieved to see him alive and well after so many years but in shock to see his true identity. He hadn't changed save for the few grey hairs on his head. His armour was different and his sword was as well but the man was the same. Judging from his smile he recognized him as well.

Before Thorongil could say a word, Imrahil punched him hard before helping him stand upright again.

"Old unfinished business," Imrahil said gruffly before his eldest son could ask. The king straightened with a wry smile.

"I am sorry, my friend, for my abrupt departure," he said. "But certain circumstances called me to return to my home. Now I have returned."

Imrahil looked him from head to toe before giving a grim but welcome smile.

"If you are king, then Gondor will see good times."


	6. Thranduil

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Thranduil**

 _"They took Dol Guldur, and Galadriel threw down its walls and laid bare its pits, and the forest was cleansed. In the North, also there had been war and evil. The realm of Thranduil was invaded, and there was long battle under the trees, and great ruin of fire; but in the end Thranduil had the victory."_

 _(Lord of the Rings: Appendix B)_

Tents were set up to heal the injured and provide shrouds to bury the dead. The dead were buried far from Dol Guldur, where the soil was soft and the trees were friends. The Elves worked quickly, bringing down what was left of Dol Guldur till it lay in nothing but a pile of disfigured stones.

No one but the Silvan Elves living in the forest of Mirkwood looked in the direction of Dol Guldur with more regret and sorrow. It was stain on their forest, on their memory. Here the imprisoned Elves spent long and dark years of imprisonment, and the Elves living in the safety of Thranduil's Halls felt the wretched helplessness.

No doubt their king felt the same, though none could say for sure. Men often described him like kings of old, terrible yet splendid, with a heart that softened in a cry of help yet hardened when a threat crashed against his forest like a storm at Sea crashed against the shores. He had seen terrible things at war, so little fazed him but he was loyal and many of his people seen him laugh when he was merry.

There was no merriment by the broken city of Dol Guldur, only grief and sorrow as they pulled more and more Elves from the pits Galadriel laid bare. Thranduil ran his eyes over the plain.

"Where is the Lady Galadriel?" Thranduil asked the guard accompanying him.

"Resting, Sire," he answered. "The battle took a heavy toll on her."

"I am sure." Thranduil said. "How many dead?"

"They are still counting, Sire."

Dol Guldur; it was the first capital of Greenwood the Great. Oropher built it as a fortress of safety, but after problems with Lothlórien, Oropher moved away to keep the peace between the two peoples. Sauron took the fortress and claimed it as his own. The greenery on the hill shrivelled away, the ground became dry and cracked. Darkness lay over Dol Guldur and any Elf that looked upon the city looked upon it with a curse. Thranduil felt the same. He went up to the uncovered pits and looked below. Bloody water gathered in small puddles on the broken ground. Chains lay broken and scattered over the stones. He saw whips as well and broken cells to hold prisoners.

"It seems Sauron looked for the secret of Morgoth on the making of orcs." Thranduil said. "Did you find any?"

"Yes, Sire."

"Where are they?"

"Sire," the guard was visibly uncomfortable. "Your advisor mentioned it best for not to see them."

"Where?" Thranduil repeated, his words brooking no argument. The guard bowed his head and led him to a nearby tent.

As soon as the flap closed behind him, Thranduil noted with a pang in his heart the stretchers on which breathing, living but mutilated Elves lay. Healers moved about. Some of the Elves were horribly mutilated, their nails torn away, their hair hanging in clumps and a part of their head naked of skin. Many showed ribs and wasted limbs that were nothing but skin on bones. Thranduil reached the one closest to him and tenderly brushed his fingers on his forehead. The Elf was unconscious but his body twitched in response. Some of these may survive with the proper care and love. He got up and moved to the further into the tent, noting with each stretcher he passed, the conditioned worsened steadily.

The Elves furthest from the tent entrance were barely recognizable. They seemed more orc than Elf. One of the healers looked up, recognized him and hurried up to him.

"How are they?" Thranduil said before the healer had the chance to speak.

"Those with the least torture may survive. Many will set sail. Those who choose to stay behind will need care and attention. As for the ones lying here," he looked about. "These are more orcs than Elves."

Thranduil lowered himself beside a nearby stretcher. The freed prisoner that lay before him was covered by a blanket, visible skin dark and bruised, the face was scarred, disfigured, the lip caught in a permanent sneer. His hair was thin and in clumps, the tips of the ears mutilated.

"And what will be their fate?"

"We have prepared a concoction to let them drift to eternal sleep." Thranduil looked up silently.

"It is the only way, my lord. I assure you it is completely painless." The healer nodded at the prisoner. "He was next."

"I will do it."

The healer did not waste his breath to argue and left. Thranduil was firm when he came on a decision and none can move him from it. When the healer returned, he passed the cup in his hands to Thranduil. The king placed his hand behind the half-orc's neck and raised its head lightly and brought the cup closer.

But it knocked away his hand. The cup dropped with a dull thud on the ground, spilling its contents on the soil that eagerly drank the concoction. It sat up, glaring at Thranduil with dark eyes. His guards immediately went for their swords but Thranduil remained calm and gestured at them to stand their ground. He searched the half-orc's eyes. There was no malice, no fury or hostility. Instead it pointed at the dagger hanging from Thranduil's belt. It wanted to die by a blade; warrior's death rather than a coward's. Still, a dagger was no weapon of battle, but Thranduil refused to use his sword to end the life of an Elf, even if it were consumed by an orc's.

He pulled the dagger free from his sheath and looked at the half-orc for confirmation. It didn't move, but lay there, neck stretched to receive the blade, satisfaction and relief in its eyes. Strange, for something so unattractive to be their kin. Thranduil pressed the blade along the neck, his guards moving to hold down the half-orc. The dagger was sharp, and Thranduil would make sure it would not suffer.

"We will meet again," Thranduil murmured to the half-orc. The dagger moved, slicing, deep enough for the blood to gush forth in fierce spurts. The half-orc gave a brief squeal of pain before it lay limp, the life dying from its eyes within a matter of moments.


	7. Glorfindel

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Glorfindel**

 _"Glorfindel was tall and straight; his hair was of shining gold, his face fair and young and fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and keen, and his voice was like music; on his brow sat wisdom and in his hand was strength."_

 _"And Elves, sir! Elves here and Elves there! Some like kings, terrible and splendid; and some as merry as children…"_

 _(Lord of the Rings; the Fellowship of the King)_

 _(Chapter: Many Meetings)_

Glorfindel glowered at the feline lounging in the middle of his bed.

"Get off," he told it.

But the cat considered him unworthy of her attention. Her legs were tucked beneath her, the ash grey fur puffing out to ward off the cold of newly arrived winter. Fire blazed in the fireplace, giving the room warmth. No doubt one of his students started the fire in his room. It was customary. It was also customary for the cat to go wherever she found warmth, and wherever suited her wants. Glorfindel sighed and shook his head, admitting defeat, and added more wood to the fire.

Estel was the one to name her "Lith" for her fur. Kept more for amusement than for any real purpose, she spent her days like a queen would. She gave birth to three kittens that were old enough to open their eyes. Glorfindel learnt to keep his door and windows closed to prevent their entry. This meant that either the student who started his fire was foolish enough to leave his door open or there was a culprit on the loose. Suddenly he remembered his door was shut tight when he came to his room. He went and checked the windows. Also closed. That meant he had a culprit to find. And he knew just who it was.

He heard murmurs in the corridor and stepped outside. Erestor and Estel both stood in the corridor, holding steaming mugs in their hands. Glorfindel marched up and rapped the thirteen-year-old with his knuckles on the crown of his head. Estel yelped in pain and rubbed his head.

"You! You are the reason why I have a cat in my bedchamber."

Erestor chuckled into his mug and took a sip. Estel did not look the least repentant. He had yet to see the sterner side of Glorfindel. "Your room was the warmest," the boy said. He was grinning. "I thought it be best."

"Where are the kittens?" Glorfindel said.

"With her, I expect," Erestor said before Estel could answer. "They never leave their mother's side, except if the cook forgets to put the milk out of their reach." His old-time friend raised a brow. "And they are probably hiding in nooks and crannies. Have a good time looking for them."

Glorfindel only shook his head. They lingered in the corridor for a while longer, chatting leisurely. Erestor surrendered his mug when he drank half of it and Glorfindel finished the rest. They parted afterwards for the night. When Glorfindel entered the room, it was cosy with warmth and Lith lay outstretched in front of the fire. He took off his boots and placed them beside his fur-trimmed boots by the door…

Except that he didn't own fur-trimmed boots.

With one hand, he scooped into one of the boots and fished out a kitten by the scruff of its neck. He did the same with the other hand and pulled out another kitten. Both of them stared at him with wide, innocent eyes. Leftover fur stuck to the edges of his boots. He raised one of the miscreants close to his face.

"Simple-minded fur-ball," he said.

The kitten licked the tip of his nose with a tiny pink tongue as the third kitten tried to play with his toes.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-Inspired by:

1\. Sam's words of Elves merry as children.

2\. Glorfindel's description marking him a mix of a seasoned warrior with the humour of a fresh sergeant.

-Estel described slightly younger mind than his age, owing to Elven blood mixed in his mortal bloodlines.

-I doubt Imladris had an issue of rats. Thus cats are more likely kept for companionship.


	8. Théodred

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Théodred**

 _"Let me lie here- to keep the Ford until Éomer comes."- Théodred's dying words._

 _(Unfinished Tales)_

 _"Remember Théodred at the Fords, and the grave of Háma in Helm's Deep!"_

 _(Lord of the Rings: Two Towers)_

 _"In the War of the Ring, Théodred fell in battle with Saruman at the Crossings of Isen."_

 _(Lord of the Rings: Appendix A)_

The sound of swords clanging, horses' hooves shaking the earth echoed around him. Théodred urged his men forward but he was losing the battle. Already the bodies were piling and he did not miss the eagerness of the enemy with which they drew nearer to him. Éomer's doubts were at last proven true. Saruman wished him dead. It will be a severe blow on Rohan if the line of Kings was crippled. After him, he was certain Éomer was next.

He cut down another opponent from atop his horse, making sure none drew near to kill his mount. He could still run if he wished but he'd be damned to leave his men behind like a coward and much less let Saruman gain ground and yet another victory. With grim acceptance, he spurred his horse on. Seeing their leader take the front, the Riders pushed harder.

"Riders of Rohan! Press on with your prince!" Théodred cried out. The Riders answered him and followed.

The first blow took down Théodred's horse in the middle of the chaos. It went down, throwing Théodred forward in his saddle and then falling on his side. His leg was trapped with the foot in the stirrup, between the horse and the ground. His sword had fallen out of his reach. The second blow came when the sword raised high above the head of the orc that would be his killer. Unable to move much, Théodred moved as far left as he could. The blade caught on to the area between his neck and shoulder. There was sharp pain and then heavy fluid gathered behind his ear and drenched him beneath the armour. An artery was hit. The orc raised his sword again but the blow did not come. An arrow pierced the orc, felling him. Horns echoed across the plains and he heard singing of a newly arrived éored. But where he lost one orc, another took its place, this time with a spear. Raising it up, the orc embedded it deep into his chest.

Théodred took in a sharp breath of pain. The orc too was cut down but the spear remained in place. The sky was bright, with not a cloud in sight, the wind forcing some strands of his hair into his eyes. His helmet had fallen back and he felt the grass was uneven and comforting just the same. He felt the urge to sleep. A face broke his vision of the sky but it was a familiar one.

"My prince!" The cry was full of anguish. He felt tears drop on his cheeks.

"Élfhelm…"

The man was obviously babbling words of comfort, lies that his wounds were not serious. And then silence fell and he felt Elfhelm's hand smooth back his hair and place his sword in his hand; he would die a proud warrior. Théodred tried to summon the strength to force out his words. His comrade's eyes widened at the mention of Éomer. He was an heir to the kingdom after Théodred's death. But nothing mattered to Théodred.

Sleep claimed him and when he awoke, he was welcomed to the halls of his forefathers as a hero who would not flee the battle for his own preservation.


	9. Aragorn

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Aragorn**

 _"… Yet I would not have you remain like a beggar at the door." – Imrahil on Aragorn's decision to put tents on the fields._

 _"Not a beggar," said Aragorn. "Say a captain of the Rangers, who are unused to cities and houses of stone."_

 _(Lord of the Ring: The Return of the King)_

 _(Chapter: The Houses of Healing)_

The silence was deafening.

Aragorn heaved a sigh and rose from his bed. Sleep would not come to him. He was given all the comforts a Man could ask for. The fire blazed merrily. The open window gave him fresh air. The bed was soft, and the silence would have been welcome if any other Man was in his place. But he was no ordinary Man.

Here the wind blowing into his room only beckoned him to the life he once knew, to the life he would give up as a king. He remembered the throbbing heat of the Sun and the silver light of the Moon, to sleep curled in a cloak over a bed of grass or a bed of stones. He doubted he would ever live such a life again. It was a hard life, but even in Imladris, his heart yearned for the Wild.

"Like Túrin, son of Húrin," Erestor once remarked on his restlessness. But Elrond was not pleased.

"Say rather, a son of Dúnedain; Túrin's fate is not one I would wish on any of my sons."

Aragorn was certainly not uncouth when it came to the matters of nobility and royalty. He was taught well, able to disguise himself among the common folk and yet remember the etiquettes to move among the higher ranks. But those who knew him remarked that no matter what he wore, his gaze was uncanny, and he wore his power and lineage like a Man would wear a cloak.

The guard standing outside his rooms stood at alert in his presence, but he waved him away. He would be old and feeble before he needed a guard to follow his steps. A nearby side garden served its purpose; with the sweet fragrance of flowers and the sound of crickets.

"I was not expecting to have company."

"I was not expecting the gardens to be occupied, Master Frodo." Aragorn sat beside the Hobbit. He felt pity for the Hobbit. The journey had taken a toll on him. The burden of the Ring was lifted but the Hobbit seemed more distant. Frodo was always cautious, soft-spoken, with bravery that was not seen at the surface, like a young lord who was given too much responsibility before his time.

"It is a peaceful place."

"Aye, it is."

They sat in quiet companionship. Then Frodo's hand reached up.

"The wound will never heal." Aragorn said. Frodo's hand dropped from the place Shelob poisoned him.

"I know, the Lords Elrohir and Elladan told me." The fountain before them was not working. The water pooled in the lowermost basin, moonlight reflecting on the surface like white gems in an Elven King's treasury. "How am I to address you? The name 'Strider' does not seem to leave my tongue."

"You may address me however you wish. It was you, not I, who walked into Mount Doom and destroyed the Ring."

"I did not do it. Gollum was the one."

"I know. But the purpose was the same."

"Gandalf was right, you know. Gollum had some part to play after all; for good or evil. In the end, he was Smeagol rather than Gollum."

"What has kept you awake?"

"I cannot believe it is done." Frodo's hand went over to the stump of the finger that bore the One Ring. It was still bandaged. "The heat was too great, and the air was hard to breathe in Mount Doom. It is still vivid in my waking as well as in my dreams."

Aragorn clasped the four-fingered hand in both of his own.

"You could have sat in silence during the Council of Elrond. Had you done so, you would not be here."

"And the Ring might not be destroyed."

"There were bare chances even then."

"I do not regret any of it. And what of you? What keeps you from dreams?"

"My kingdom it seems; and my yearning to join the Wild."

"You will have Men you can trust. Sam speaks highly of the Steward. He says he reminds him of Gandalf, only younger."

"The Men of Minas Tirith under his command say he reminded them of kings of old."

"Is that not a good thing?"

"I hope. And if it were not, then Gondor will learn to live on, even if I bring ruin to it."

"Doubt in oneself would bring nothing but ruin, Strider."

"And how did you come by such wisdom?"

"I would not have reached Mount Doom without it."

"You have become wise from your experience." Aragorn touched the Hobbit's shoulder.

"I think all of us are, even Pippin. If an Elf and a Dwarf can form an unbreakable friendship then I suppose anything is possible."

Aragorn's laugh echoed in the air. Frodo was smiling as well.

"I should go. Sam would look into my room and find me gone. He would worry."

"He is a loyal friend." Frodo rose from the bench.

"He kept me on my feet all the way to Mount Doom. I would not worry, Aragorn." Frodo said. "You will be a great king. I am sure."

"And what of my love for the Wild?"

Frodo paused in thought.

"I expect… I suppose one always cherishes the things that have turned to nothing but memories. I cherish my childhood, but I suppose I would be sorry if I missed the chance to do something good for all of Middle-Earth, even if I can't go back to the way my life was." With that Frodo left.

When Aragorn returned to his rooms, sleep came easily.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **-** Not many people like Frodo and I do not understand why. I feel as if Frodo is one of the characters who goes through remarkable development throughout the book.

-One of the differences you can see in Frodo is in him before the adventure and then after the War of the Ring. Tolkien showed clearly the effect of taking the Ring, suffering from the Morgul blade and Shelob's poisoning as a whole.

-Sam once likened Frodo to be like the Elven lords of old times. Such lords in Tolkien works were described as quiet, thoughtful, wise and fair. I expect Frodo would be the same.


	10. Bilbo

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

All stories including this one is rechecked and updated. Thank you for the help: Amateur Bacon Cook and bella13446. :)

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Bilbo**

 _"This is the Hall of Fire" said the wizard. "Here you will hear many songs and tales- if you can keep awake."_

 _(Lord of the Rings; the Fellowship of the Ring)_

 _(Chapter: Many Meetings)_

 _"I beg of you," said Bilbo stammering and standing on one foot, "to accept this gift!' and he brought out a necklace of silver and pearls that Dain had given him at their parting._

 _"In what way have I earned such a gift, O hobbit?" said the king._

 _"Well, er, I thought, don't you know," said Bilbo, rather confused, "that, er, some little return should be made for your, er, hospitality. I mean even a burglar has his feelings. I have drunk much of your wine and eaten much of your bread."_

 _(The Hobbit)_

 _April,_

 _Third Age, 3019,_

The Hall of Fire was wondrously warm. It was filled more than it was ever before. The lighter robes of the inhabitants of Imladris mixed among the darker colours of Elves who travelled from Eryn Lasgalen with their King. Thranduil and Elrond sat together on a high platform, while the minstrels played soft music by the crackling fire. Finally the music ceased and Bilbo stepped forward.

Bilbo's song was unlike any other; it was not Elvish, but went more along the lines of joyful tunes sung in the Green Dragon on wintery nights. It was a jaunty tune, of a young Hobbit forced to leave the comforts of his home due to a company of Dwarves and the longing of his own heart. Bilbo stepped and gestured as he sang as much as his old age allowed, of how the Hobbit went from one trouble to the other, following it with the woe of losing his perfect buttons at the Goblin-door, of the terror of wolves and the barrels swinging in the river. It was a story King Thranduil knew well.

Bilbo never witnessed the horror on the Elves' faces as he witnessed then. At first, they struggled to keep their composure but towards the end, laughter rose up even among King Thranduil's company. When Bilbo stepped away, he looked over to where the mentioned King sat. Curiously, Thranduil's face was hidden behind his hand. His shoulders shook. Beside him, Lord Elrond sat with a merry smile on his face. Bilbo went up to them.

"Well, Master Burglar, for all the years that passed by you, your memory is still as sharp as a knife." Thranduil said. He removed his hand and Bilbo found a smile in place of a frown he was expecting. The King turned to Elrond. "I hope you were not the one to encourage him, my friend. If so, the consequences will be dire."

At times, Bilbo found King Thranduil frightening. He was a like a king in tales of old; proud, fierce, like a lion baring its teeth. But then Thranduil would smile, and Bilbo would see the kindness and generosity lingering just beneath the surface, and only then would one notice the cubs the lion was protecting.

"I told if he had the audacity to sing about the shortcomings of the Elven King of Greenwood in his presence, it will be his tongue and neck at stake and not mine," Elrond said. But his voice was merry, and Bilbo knew there was no harm. "But then Master Bilbo sung about my father in my presence, and I will say he indeed has courage for a being so small."

"You were not offended then, Master Elrond, and forgive my saying so. Had I known you felt differently, I would not have put your father's tale to song." Bilbo said, slightly defensive. But Elrond was not surprised.

"I believe I have been put to my place." Elrond remarked. Thranduil gave a short laugh and reached for his goblet.

"You have been indeed, my friend. Have a care! This burglar managed to evade my watch and roamed my halls. I believe you are severely outmatched."

Bilbo, at first, began to feel a bit offended, but then he noticed the jests were not at his expense. Their words for him were full of respect, but they were entirely meant for one another.

"I need not fear he would resort to burglary again! After all, those days are past him. Are they not, Master Bilbo?"

Bilbo flushed up to his whitening hair.

"They are long past and I hope the nasty business does not return, for I am too weary to take any adventure. Although I hope," Bilbo turned to King Thranduil, rose and gave an awkward little bow. "I did not offend you, Elven King. The song was meant to only remember the past."

"Do not worry, Master Hobbit. I am not offended. Indeed, it was splendid to hear, though I cannot believe one as good in burglary as you could have made so many slips!"

"Most were highly exaggerated, King," Bilbo sat comfortably on the seat provided for him. "It was meant to be comical."

"Ah, then you should have lengthened the part of taking your helpings in my dinner, Master Hobbit." The King leaned back in his chair, the informal position only complimenting his royal form. "For the chase of finding who was responsible for eating for the supper I sung for was indeed a comedy none of my people will forget!"

Remembering his hunger and the King's tempting (and unwatched) dinner, Bilbo flushed but the King laughed once more.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-After war, merrymaking is never amiss.

-I do not see Thranduil as hard-hearted. I see him as someone who was forced to harden himself in order to face his hardships.

-I am terrible at poetry, so forgive the lack of lyrics. :)

\- The word "comical" was used in the Hobbit, so I saw no problem using it here.

-Celeborn and Thranduil met on April 6. Elrond and Arwen set out for the wedding on May 1. Since Thranduil did not join the escort, I expect he had duties that withheld him. So I assume he met the leaving party before they left Imladris… somewhere between April 6 to May 1.

 **Do leave a review if you have the time.** I enjoy them. Really I do. I am giving my papers these days, so time is not a best friend to post a reply. :)


	11. Arwen

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

* * *

 **Arwen**

 _"Then she lifted from her lap a great stone of a clear green, set in a silver brooch that was wrought in the likeness of an eagle with outspread wings; and as she held it up the gem flashed like the sun shining through the leaves of spring."_

 _(Fellowship of the Ring: Farewell to Lórien)_

 _"For it is said that those who looked through this stone saw things that were withered or burned healed again or as they were in the grace of their youth, and that the hands of one who held it brought to all that they touched healing from hurt."_

 _(Unfinished Tales: History of Galadriel and Celeborn)_

She turned the Elessar between her fingers, marvelling the way it caught the sunlight. She had unpinned the brooch from Aragorn's cloak, where he wore it always, even to battle. The years left the silver wings unstained, and the gem itself was bright when it caught the flashing light. It was what gave Aragorn his name he took as a king. In Westron, the men simply called it 'Elfstone'.

She raised her head. Aragorn sat behind his desk across the room, with papers littered across the surface. He was too deep in thought to pay her attention. His black hair was now snow white. His face was wrinkled in both sorrow and joy. His beard was white and slightly longer than usual. The crown rested upon his head. He would not leave her side for many years to come. In that, she was confident. But the years were passing by, and time was now short. She treasured each day, made memories by the hour.

She remembered the legends surrounding the Elfstones. They were green stones with the light of the sun trapped within it. The Noldor loved them dearly. They granted the power of healing to their bearers. It was also said that the one who looked through an Elfstone saw withered things young and whole.

She held up the brooch and looked through. Her beloved was now surrounded by green-golden light, but his hair and beard was dark and his skin smooth. He was just the way she first saw him, when she heard his voice singing the song of Tinúviel and he called for her by that name. He was young and handsome; just like she remembered him. But her love was not based on his looks and it did not diminish over the years.

Sensing his wife's eyes upon him, Aragorn looked up. But Arwen was looking outside the window with tears in her eyes and a soft smile on her face. The Elfstone lay on her lap.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-In record, there are two Elfstones. The first one was made in Gondolin and was lost. It is unclear which one Aragorn possessed but it was first given to Galadriel, who gave it to Celebrían, who gave it Arwen (going mother to daughter).

-The Elessar is the singular form of 'Elfstone'.


	12. Faramir 1

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

This is a **double** update. You may have missed one before this.

* * *

 **Faramir**

 _"… Over all the Lady Éowyn wore a great blue mantle of the colour of deep summer-night, and it was set with the silver stars about hem and throat."_

 _"The mantle was wrought for his mother, Finduilas of Amroth, who died untimely, and was to him but a memory of loveliness in far days and of his first grief…"_

 _(Return of the King: The Steward and the King)_

Faramir's deeds called for a celebration.

His Rangers caught the secret plans of the enemy, and his swift response not only brought victory to Gondor but annihilated the battalion that dared to step inside the borders. The men returned to Minas Tirith singing his praises and recounting the tale to all those who listened.

Denethor listened quietly, as was his wont, but there was no doubt the Steward was proud of his son's feat. A feast was held in his honour and when it broke, he let his son go to celebrate with his men.

In the evening, before Faramir left with his comrades for merrymaking, Denethor called his son to his chambers. When Faramir entered, he found a small chest waiting for him on a table beside Denethor's chair. His father opened it, swept away the wrappings and pulled from it a mantle as dark as night and with embroidery resembling the stars. Upon a woman, it would look as if the heavens themselves draped around her.

"It belonged to your mother," Denethor said. The mantle flowed and fell on the folds upon the ground as he held it up for Faramir to see. "Take this as my gift to you. You have your name and honour, and your men to do your bidding. May a time come that you find a woman to love as I loved your mother." Faramir looked at his father and caught a rare glimpse of emotion on his father's face; sorrow and grief. "And may she never leave your side as early as your mother left mine."

Faramir reached out and touched the mantle reverently. His fingers were rough from deeds on the battlefield, but the mantle was as soft as he remembered from his childhood. The silver was untarnished, and he caught the faint scent of his mother's perfume still clinging to the mantle. He smiled.

"You have given me a rich gift, father."

"And one I know you will treasure. Keep it safe until you find the lady worthy for it."

Faramir returned the mantle to its chest and wrappings. He set it in his room among his most prized items. There was no lady in his life. But if there was, then he would bestow this as a gift upon her.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-Do please leave a review if you are able. :)


	13. Amrothos

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

* * *

 **Amrothos**

He examined himself carefully in the looking-glass. The knife-wound was healed, the thin, white scar running down from the middle of his cheek down to his jawline. It gave his face character, though it no longer held the handsome features of an innocent-looking noble. The scar made him look fiercer, manlier.

"Pity I cannot grow a beard to hide this scar." Amrothos said before looking over his shoulder where Faramir, his kin, sat. The Steward's second son looked at him amused.

"Scars will make your popular." Faramir said.

"Hm, and warn the parents to keep their daughters at a distance."

"You sound upset."

"I did not survive each battle carefully guarding my face from marring to get a cut in a _tavern brawl._ "

"You sound vain."

Faramir knew if anything, Amrothos was vain about his refined looks, but lethal when it came to strategy. The Prince was not above using dirty tactics in battle.

"I feel vain." Amrothos gestured at Faramir's beard. "How is it that you are able to grow a beard when your mother was our paternal aunt?"

"You forget my father was not from the Princes of Dol Amroth and therefore with no blood relation to Elves."

"Of all things to inherit from Elves, we inherit the lack of beards from them."

"Well, the Elves can grow beards in very advanced stage of life."

"Your reasoning does nothing to console me."

There was a knock on the door, which was slightly ajar. The door swept open and Legolas entered, with a customary smile upon his face.

"There you are. Your absences were noted in the hall. Prince Imrahil is currently playing a game of chess against Éomer. Your spectatorship is needed."

Catching Amrothos pass a forlorn glance at the mirror, Legolas asked, "Is something amiss?"

"Nay," Amrothos said. "I am merely cursing the shortcomings of Elves."

Catching Legolas' confused look, Faramir tapped at his beard behind Amrothos' back. Comprehension dawned and Legolas laughed merrily.

"I apologize for the traits of my kin. It is simply how we are made. Come! The Hobbits insist upon a song in the all company of Dwarf, Men and Elves… and those descended from the last two."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-When I first read that the Princes of Dol Amroth were unable to grow beards due to their Elven bloodline, I literally laughed aloud and decided to take a jab at it. This was the result. :D

-Source of this canon is in _"Unfinished Tales: History of Galadriel and Celeborn"_

-See? I can write humour... eventually.


	14. Denethor

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

Thanks to sian22, annafan, Certh, Pip the Dark Lord of all, LadyLindariel, BrightPath2, bella13446, nyx thranduilion, SmileyXs Ice-Cream Sprinkles, feathered moon wings, Amatuer Bacon Cook for their breath taking amount of reviews that not only gave me joy but made me go grinning around like a happy idiot. :D

As always, thanks to ABC and bella13446 for their constructive concrit.

* * *

 **Denethor**

He was the one who kept the two brothers together whenever it was possible. In fact he insisted upon it. He told them briefly that brothers must stand together and let nothing come in between them.

In personality, both sons were so different that Denethor often feared they would form a rift between themselves once they grew older. Faramir was quiet, cautious and moved closer to pity. He looked for solutions that ended with friendship. Boromir was straightforward, sometimes reckless, every inch of him a leader on the battlefield but he lacked Faramir's way with words and actions.

Quarrels were the norm when the two were children. As much as the saying went the brothers always fought, Denethor refused to let them continue their squabbles. He nipped the custom in the bud.

"Neither of you will retire to bed until you put your differences aside." He used to command them. "You are the future of this land, and I will not have you risk it over a petty argument."

It was when they had grown that they understood the depth of their father's wisdom. Conceited nobles who were always plotting to gain more power tried to drive a wedge between the two brothers. But Denethor's stern discipline only brought them closer after each experience. And so, the two brothers enjoyed playful banter whenever they ate with their father. Denethor enjoyed their exchanges, even though he did not side with either of them. At one occasion, after the two had returned from a mission that involved their participation, Boromir had taken to teasing his sibling mercilessly

"He spends much of his time in books!" Boromir exclaimed to his father. "Every time we camped, every time we stopped by a city, I would find him usually in whatever miserable room they called a library. At one time, I was afraid he would bring a book rather than his sword to battle!"

"A learned man who is a soldier as well is a mighty man, Boromir," Denethor advise in his calm, eloquent way. "You may learn something from your younger brother yet."

But Faramir was not one to be so quickly outwitted. With a raised brow and a small knowing smile he inherited from Denethor, the younger brother said. "Kindly observe, father, the vain attempt of attacking me in a way to mask the identity of his lady love."

Denethor laughed heartedly at that.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-When reading LoTR, Faramir comes acrosss as a man who is not only well-versed in lore but also one who is accomplished in the battle.

-That does not mean that Boromir is his brother's opposite, it simply means that he has his interests elsewhere, since I likened him to a brisk general.

-I will not be able to reply to any reviews this time around and I sincerely apologize. I am currently nursing a migraine so the lit screen is worsening every passing minute.


	15. Eowyn

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

* * *

 **Éowyn**

 _"But Glorfindel rode up then on his white horse, and in the midst of his laughter the Witch-king turned to flight and passed into the shadows."_

 _"Eärnur now rode back, but Glorfindel, looking into the gathering dark, said: "Do not pursue him! He will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall."_

 _(Lord of the Rings: Appendix A)_

 _"It seemed that Dernhelm laughed, and the clear voice was like the ring of steel. "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter."_

 _(Return of the King: Pelennor Fields)_

She had met with the lords of Rivendell when they first arrived in Minas Tirith but she was formally introduced to them by King Elessar the day after the wedding, in the evening, when the Elves claimed for a more peaceful and relaxed setting than a grand feast.

As soon as Aragorn introduced her to Lord Elrond and his most trusted companions, Lord Glorfindel and Lord Erestor, all eyes were upon her, Elves, Men, Hobbits and Dwarves alike. The scrutiny was unnerving. For a brief moment, Éowyn's eyes briefly faltered and she focused more on the embroidery on Lord Elrond's robes than anything else. Finally, her pride set in and overpowered her senses and she rose to her full height and raised her chin proudly.

The first Elf to meet her gaze was Lord Glorfindel himself. If it were not for the ethereal quality in his being, Éowyn would have considered him a fresh lively youth among the Riders of Rohirrim. But his eyes were tinged with memories acquired through the Ages, followed by the soothing smile on his face that instantly brought her own smile to surface. But what mattered most was the emotion in his eyes; respect. He looked upon her with respect.

"So this is the slayer of the Witch-king," The Elf Lord said. His voice was deep, melodious and pleasant to hear. "Your praise has done her injustice, Estel. The lady seems more strong and noble than you described."

Glorfindel's words were not meant to belittle the King, who only laughed and apologized for his shortcomings. Glorfindel did not remove his gaze on her. She found it was easy to meet his eyes; they were soft and welcoming.

"Come, my lady. I have heard that your deeds were written in songs but I would like to hear the tale from your own tongue."

She tried to decline as politely but the Elves managed to persuade her until finally she consented. She was no storyteller; she stumbled over some words, gave thought to many others. But the Elves listened patiently and in rapt attention. They did not interrupt her, nor did they seem to lose their interest. It was only when she stopped speaking that she became aware of the silence in the hall aside from her voice.

Suddenly realizing she sat among Elves who not only witnessed battles throughout the Ages, but were likely to be older than her own ancestry and immortalized in song, Éowyn struggled to keep her composure. What was she compared to these Elves? What were her deeds, compared to their deeds? Surely they were more renowned than her.

But at length, Glorfindel stirred and said, "Hardy indeed is the people of Rohan. If this is one lady from their people, then I am sure they are a mighty people." His words were meant for everyone but the last words were for Éowyn herself. "You have defeated a mighty foe, my lady. And for that you have our everlasting respect. Your name will be mentioned in many of our songs and lore."

"I was not aware that my battle with the Witch-King would create such a stir. I merely challenged him to defend my kinsman."

Glorfindel smiled broadly at that.

"My lady, the Witch-King was a foe that we Elves had challenged long ago. None of us succeeded in defeating him. When he fled, it was I who stopped my comrades and proclaimed that he would not die by the hand of any man. And here you stand, my lady. You did what no Elf or Man could do."

When Éowyn retired for the night, Glorfindel's words still echoed in her mind.

'You did what no Elf or Man could do.'

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-Glorfindel was among the Elves who arrived from Rivendell. I think he probably sought out Éowyn, considering he was the one prophesised her deed and she was the one who completed the prophecy.

-Éowyn being overwhelmed- It may seem out of character but I took the reasoning from the book "Two Towers" where Éowyn looked back and Aragorn described her. She was suddenly aware of him and realized what power he held even though it was hidden. At that she abruptly left. I take that as a brief loss of composure. I would consider her kingly (or queenly), but at the same time, very much human.

-I should probably be resting but my migraine won't let me rest, and I was restless in the dark and lack of sound. And Glorfindel appeared as knight in shining armour.


	16. Eowyn 1

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

You may have missed one update before this.

* * *

 **Éowyn**

 _"In that day, Éowyn also won renown, for she fought in that battle, riding in disguise; and was known after in the Mark as the Lady of the Shield-arm."_

 _(Lord of the Rings: Appendix A)_

 _"The arm that was broken has been tended with due skill, and it will mend in time, if she has the strength to live: It is the shield-arm that is maimed…"_

 _(Return of the King: Houses of Healing)_

Her arm throbbed with a dull ache from her shoulder to wrist. She set down the books carefully on a nearby table and ran her other hand over her arm. The burden was too much for her.

They warned her that her arm may not heal properly, and it was indeed so. Her shield-arm was not the way it once was. Over the years, her arm did not trouble her but still dull ache lay deep within her bone when the seasons changed, when the damp, chilly wind blew.

Rubbing her arm carefully, she looked out a nearby window. The gardens of Ithilien bloomed with forest flowers that decorated windows and pathways. It was a sweet haven deep within the forest, a circle of peace and contentment for her enjoyment. But her thoughts darkened for a moment, her hand tracing the fading scars on her arm. Memories flashed across her mind; the quaking of the ground as the mûmakil advanced, the screams of the wounded and dying, the fear constricting her heart at the sight of eminent death-

"Mother?"

Éowyn smiled and her eyes fluttered close. The distant screams of the battle faded away, and she smelled the sweet smell of flowers instead of blood again.

"Take these books down to thy father, my son."


	17. Faramir 2

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

You may have missed two updates before this.

* * *

 **Faramir**

There were many things that belonged to his father that he left untouched.

The Steward's staff was always warm in his hands, but he remembered it to be more of his father's. The memory was strange to wake up and face his king after being encased in fever and nightmares, and later be informed he was the Steward of Gondor. How his father perished, he asked but they spoke in low voices that he died during the siege. The choice of words was not lost on him; died, not killed.

It was only after he assumed his duties and reached full health that he was enlightened. He learned his father's descent to madness, the crippling of his wit and his actions with oil and fire by which he took his own life and nearly that of Faramir as well.

He later learned that everyone, including his lady love, knew of his father's demise except for him. So once when the conversation fell into an uncomfortable silence at the mention of his father, all bodies tensed and eyes slipped away and refused to meet his. Faramir sighed.

"Lord Denethor," he said. "What do you know of Lord Denethor? Some may say he was just when he was a young Steward. Others may say he was harsh in his methods but victorious in results. Some may say he was distrustful. But my father was a cloth coloured in many shades. And each man saw a different colour from where he stood. I saw him and loved him as a son would love a father and I still do. He was stern, underneath which lay a soft and well-meaning heart. It was him who strove to keep me and my brother together and allowed us to indulge our interests."

Faramir stopped and smiled at the thought of a man who was now a mere memory.

"If one must blame the late Steward of Gondor," he continued in the ringing silence, "then let us blame the Enemy also! Cursed was Sauron's design and my father was caught like a fly in a spider's web. After my brother's demise, my father descended into darkness until he was not the man I knew from the time I was a boy." The emotion of love and sorrow in Faramir's words move his companions, including the new king, to tears.

That night, when the streets were empty and the lights were doused, Faramir walked among the graves of his forefathers and wept.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-I refuse to believe the Faramir sketched out in books by Tolkien, who managed to see that Frodo was hiding something from him, who realized the danger of the One Ring, did not see through his father's madness to love him as a son would.


	18. Denethor 1

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

You may have missed three updates before this.

* * *

 **Denethor**

His sons were not repulsive in looks. In fact, one may even call them handsome. Their Númenórean descent was strong; black hair, sharp grey eyes and strong figure. Their looks were refined by the mixed Elven bloodline from their mother. Doubtless their children would be fine.

And that brought him to his present predicament. Perhaps he had been too indulgent with them, as each of his sons rode off to one skirmish after another and returned victorious and showed no signs of settling down.

"Did you know," Denethor said to his youngest when he entered his study and left a pile of reports on his desk, "that amongst the many duties, one must also produce an heir?" Faramir raised both his brows.

But Denethor severely underestimated his opponent.

"I agree, father. I will pass this on to your firstborn, so that he may complete this duty at the earliest, which is so basic in nature… in wedlock, of course."

Denethor laughed.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-Show some love and review? :)


	19. Elrond

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

124 reviews! I am feeling shy. (Hides under blanket) Thanks, everyone. :)

* * *

 **Elrond**

The sea breeze caressed his cheek, his hair whipping behind him. It was not cold, but it was not hot either. The weather was a perfect balance between the two. The sunlight did not bother him in spite the fact he had no shelter from it here on deck. The world around him was calm and yet his heart was in turmoil.

He knew from his foresight what his daughter's choice would be. And he saw her take the same step as his foremother did, all for the love of a man. And yet he did not find it in his heart to condemn them. Aragorn was as dear to him as if he were his own son. When Aragorn declared his love for Arwen, Elrond saw in him a ghost of his brother Elros. And he knew then there was no way he could not bestow his blessings upon them.

But his sons' choice caught him by surprise. They only declared they would linger for a while in Middle-Earth. They neither said yea or nay to immortality, but Elrond felt the fact that they wanted to stay was a hint enough.

He did not expect it of them. They never forgot what happened to their mother. They grieved when she set sail. He expected them to eagerly join him. But they stayed. It was as if his heart was pierced and he was frozen in shock. But after a moment he composed himself and agreed quietly that staying was perhaps for the best. He did not miss the way they had said farewell, as if it was the last time they would meet within the circles of Arda. Elrond's thoughts went to his wife and wondered how he would tell her of their children's choice. Of how he let them go as he let his brother go.

A single tear dropped from his eye and joined the massive waters of the Sea below.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-Tolkien specifically did _not_ call the twins "Elves". In their physical description, they were addressed as "men". Maybe it was his own way of pointing out the twins _might_ chose mortality.

-I understand that Elrond loved Aragorn still and treated him as a father should, but considering the loss he went through, loss of parents' at an early age (even if daddy is shining down on them. Hi Dad!), destruction of his home, Kinslayer as a foster-father, his wife's torture and sailing, Arwen's choice and then the twins' uncertain fate, the poor Elf would feel _some_ sorrow.

-Regardless, even in this Scribble, the fate of the twins is unknown.

 **Important Note:**

-Just a head's up for those who don't have me on alert, I may not be able to update further in this coming month. :)


	20. Thranduil I

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

* * *

 **Thranduil**

The look on Elrond's face could only be described as glee.

Thranduil kept his face impassive and refused to touch the subject Elrond so eagerly awaited. The game had gone for three hours at least, with Elrond leaving inviting suggestions that Thranduil did not bother to entertain. And so the fourth hour was soon coming to an end. But Thranduil's pride was newly healed after suffering such a deep bruise. He refused to allow Elrond wound it again.

As the minutes ticked by, the pair stared at each other wordlessly. Thranduil's face steadily grew more stony and Elrond's smile only grew wider and wider.

Finally, it was Elrond who broke the terse silence.

"You surprise me, Thranduil," the Lord of Imladris said smoothly. He lifted his goblet to his lips and took a long drink, merry eyes looking at Thranduil over the rim. "I must admit I am baffled."

"It does not take much to baffle you, Elrond," Thranduil said curtly. He was not going to enjoy this. Elrond sat down the goblet, its metal ringing lightly when it hit the polished wooden table separating the two Elves. Elrond leaned forward, his white teeth flashing in a wide grin.

"Thranduil Oropherion, you boasted many times how nothing passed your attention in your own Halls, and the Dwarves escaped… in _barrels._ " Elrond was laughing now. The Lord leaned back in his chair and laughed even when Thranduil threw him a dangerous look. "By an unwatched latch, no less! I told you, your love for wine will come back to you in a most unpleasant manner!"

Thranduil gracefully uncrossed his legs and rose from his chair. He straightened his back and held up his head with as much dignity as possible and looked at his old friend.

"I am needed elsewhere."

If he hoped to curb Elrond's humour with such a curt statement, he was sorely mistaken. The Half-Elf's bright laughter followed him out the door until he reached the end of the corridor.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-This was inspired by the fact that Thranduil was in control of his Halls, but the Dwarves (not really their enemy, but still disliked), managed to outwit him and leave. (With Bilbo, but Elves and Dwarves have something going on more than Elves and Hobbits).

-I have exams these days (does anyone want to learn disgusting surgical procedures for me?), hence I will not be able to reply to reviews. Just be sure that I read every single one and enjoyed them (and made little happy replies up in my head :)

-Do leave a **review** if you are able. :)


	21. Celeborn

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

You may have missed one **update** before this.

* * *

 **Celeborn**

If one looked away from the roundness of the infant's face, Celeborn could have said Celebrían shared her mother's looks and her father's hair. The tuft growing his daughter's head was more silver than gold. Her eyes were bright grey like her mother's and her skin was pale white. Celeborn took her in arms and nuzzled her soft cheek against his own. Her cheeks were red in the winter cold. Only time will tell, however, who she took after. Regardless, to Celeborn, she was beautiful.

Celebrían cooed and Celeborn hoisted her up from his lap until her face was close to his own. Small soft hands patted his cheeks and his eyes fluttered close when Celebrían pressed her hands against them. His daughter's hands drifted away and he opened his eyes again, laughing lightly at the awed expression on her face as if she was discovering his face for the first time. It was endearing. Her hands pressed against his lips and he gave them a kiss. Celebrían giggled.

The winter sun held no warmth so they stayed under the shade of a tree. Galadriel lay beside her husband and daughter with her head resting on Celeborn's folded cloak. She had an amused smile on her face as she watched them.

Celebrían's hands went to his chin and she squeezed the piece of flesh there. Celeborn winced. His chin was very prominent, jutting outwards and adding more character to his face. It gave him a stubborn-looking profile. Celebrían giggled and squeezed harder. Galadriel stifled her laughter behind a hand. Celeborn pulled away from his daughter's grasp and playfully frowned at her. Celebrían landed back on his lap with a soft thump.

The infant stood on his lap with shaky legs and latched onto his chin, sucking furiously. Galadriel burst out laughing.

"Eru's purpose for your chin has come to light, dear husband!"


	22. Cirdan I

**Author's Note:**

 **Disclaimer:** Just a scribbler scribbling away...

You may have missed two **updates** before this.

* * *

 **Círdan**

The sails were down. Wind caught into the crisp white sails bearing the light blue and silver emblems of the Grey Havens. Círdan stood at the helm, laughing in exhilaration as the cold wind caught his hair and struck his face. He was dressed warmly, much like the rest of his companions. The ship rocked underneath him but he kept his balance after years of practice.

"We are nearly there!" One of the sailors shouted. Círdan looked up, the looming white structures they were reaching. As much as he loved the spray of cold water against his face, and the fresh scent in the air, he was not keen on frostbite. He pulled the cloth around his neck upwards until it covered the lower half of his face. His hands were already gloved and his great cloak circled him in cosy warmth.

The white structures towered them by several feet until it seemed as if they were capable of touching the sky. Círdan looked up at them in awe. One living on land with no taste of the freedom the Sea brings would never know about these structures.

They were called glaciers, pure white in colour, with the upper surface lightly tinted blue from the colour of the sky. The water that melted from them was clean, pure, and clear until one could see the bed of soil and plants below. Few fish and sea creatures dwelled this close to the towering glaciers.

"Watch out!"

The warning shout made Círdan instinctively steer the ship away from potential danger. He heard a soft tinkling sound, almost like a melody and he turned his head left. Some feet away, cracks began to appear in a glacier. The chunks that fell almost seemed like cloudy powder until finally, a large chunk several feet height and several feet wide fell into the water with a loud crash. Water rose up and the ship bobbed up and down with the new waves before settling.

As they moved further inland, the sails were folded again and the ship bobbed peacefully along the waves.

There was no purpose for this expedition. Círdan merely put this voyage for entertainment. He was joined with companions he had sailed with for many millennia and formed a brotherhood with them. They, too, had his love for these beautiful, otherworldly designs purely made from clean water frozen in place.

Once close to the shore, and the anchor in place, Círdan with some of his oldest friends disembarked with a boat. The weather was bitter cold, and the wind was harsh but fortunately not fast. They brought ropes with them, along with pickaxes.

"Pray do not tell me you intend to climb that." One of the Elves said in disbelief, gesturing at the glacier larger than any city they have ever seen.

"You are welcome to watch." Círdan jested, knowing full well his friends enjoyed the same things he did.

The glacier they wished to scale was not the smallest but was certainly not the biggest. Even so, it took them over an hour to reach the top. Círdan was thankful for their fit forms that allowed them the stamina to accomplish such a feet. He reached the top first and helped hoist his friends until they joined him. One of them looked beyond, his eyes shining in awe.

"Ai, Elbereth," he breathed, his voice muffled by the cloth he tied over his nose and mouth similar to Círdan.

At first they only trekked in enjoyment, each pointing out something they found remarkable. The sun provided them with no heat, and they remained in a tight cluster together. The many layers of tightly woven cloth, made tirelessly by their women, kept them warm.

Half an hour of wandering led them to one place they did not expect to see. Círdan first caught the sound of water running, which sounded unlikely on the solid ice. They walked some more feet, until at last they came upon a deep crevice. Looking below, they found a flooring of ice, with a single hole in it.

It was a like a fountain made of ice with water sprouting from a single hole and disappearing into a vast black void below. Círdan look down with some trepidation. If the rope cut off, or he lost his hold, he could easily fall into it. As far as he could gather, the void was some form of channel, presumably joining the sea through the glacier itself. He was not sure how deep the channel went, but he would probably be either dead or encased in his broken body at the end of it.

"We are pulling you up!" He heard the shout above him.

"Nay! Lower me a little more!"

"I am not taking your dead body to your wife!"

Círdan laughed but the rope gave him some purchase to steadily lower himself until he hit the smooth ice. He was grateful for his boots with its studded metal sheets to prevent him from slipping. He slowly made his way towards the sprouting water. Its roar sounded sweet to his ears, making it one of the many reasons he gave his love to the Sea and dedicated his life to finding the secrets it held.

Once he reached the large gaping hole that hungrily drank the water cascading into it, he knelt and looked inside. He pulled down his mask and breathed in deeply. The air was cold, but fresh. Pulling one hand free from its glove he dipped his hand into the water and gasped at the sharp cold as it stung his hand. He pulled back his hand, the palm forming a cup and drank. It trickled down his throat and Círdan smiled. This was unlike any water he ever tasted. It held no flavour, was neither sweet nor sour. And yet one could drink his fill and thirst for more. Its fragrance was only cold and fresh.

He ran his hand once along the ice, marvelling the way it felt smooth. His hand began to turn blue and he shook himself out of his stupor and gloved it again. He pulled up the cloth over his face and tugged on the rope thrice to signal he wished to return.

A few more of his companions took turns of going down and taking a sip like he did. At that time he kept himself planted firmly on the ice, his sure grip making sure he never left their rope. At the same time he marvelled the outline of the glaciers. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some had sharp outlines, reminding him of cut and polished gems by Dwarves. Others had smooth curves and ripples, like the Elven smiths when they made a decorative vase.

They tarried for a little while before finally turning towards the ship with regret. If they did not return in the allotted time, the sailors would become anxious and dread a worst fate. They reached the ship, picking up uncommonly coloured and shaped seashells along the way to please their mothers, wives, daughters and sisters as trinkets.

They stayed for two more days, and visited a nearby lake where the water was so clear they could see the stones below. They caught the fish dwelling there and ate their meals before leaving. The ship set sail with the night tide. Círdan took the helm in the first hour, abandoning his cloak and some garments to enjoy the chilly sea wind. One of his friends joined him. The stars above them shone brilliantly, its light catching upon the waves.

Neither of them spoke, but simply enjoyed the stillness of the Sea, and the peacefulness of their ship, as if they lived a separate life from the rest of Arda.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-This is slightly old by a month, but it is inspired by numerous glacier documents.

-I always felt as if Cirdan would be the kind to enjoy the beauty of water bodies around his journeys. He must have also loved the Sea in its own form; raging in the storms to being calm on a lazy day.

-There is so little known about Cirdan except for some very dry facts. Yet, for one to love the Sea, one has to have some traits of the Sea; hence I fashioned him in my head as one with wisdom because of his age, and yet strong-willed, slightly untamed, taking rational risks, and confident to pursue things he loved the most.

-Forgive the absence of names other than that of Cirdan. Since these Scribblings mean to explore canonic characters, I was not willing to introduce any OCs. I might change this thought later.

-Please leave a **review.** ;)


	23. Ioreth

**Author's Note:**

Thanks to BrightPath2, Certh, Just A Reviewer, SmileyXs Ice Cream Sprinkles, bella13446, catherine10, Sophia the Scribe, i luv milarion 1201 for their reviews!

* * *

 **Ioreth**

Death.

It was glorified in ballads and songs. The theatre showed heroes collapsing backwards like otherworldly beings. They called them brave, fierce and bold for facing death.

But the healers know better.

She saw many a soldier leave their bodies behind. She saw the sheer terror wedged deep in their eyes as their last breath left them. She saw pain line their faces as the death throes grabbed them in a chokehold.

They made horrific sounds as they died. It was the sound of something heavy rattling in an empty container. The Warden said it was their soul, seeking for an exit to leave the body behind. That's why the dying always gave a final sigh before they died.

She remembered treating a young Rohirric boy, with crushed arms and legs who bawled for his dead mother in the haze of agony and fear. She remembered the man with a slit throat, the cut that went from ear to ear. He was still alive, miraculously. But the wind whistled through the cut and he gurgled helplessly, blood welling from his lips and staining his yellowed, dirty teeth red. She remembered treating an old man who went to war, his open wound stuck with grime and small stones. They couldn't remove the stones. All of them died.

Countless others passed by her fingers. Some survived. Others passed away. All the deceased were nameless, but she remembered each face, young or old, no matter how mutilated or unrecognizable.

She saw enough death to last her a lifetime.

But then she saw the king walked among them and smelled the scent of freshly crushed athelas.

"Come back, Faramir…"


	24. Galadriel

**Galadriel**

Thranduil gave a laugh that echoed off the walls and held his son up high for all to see.

"Behold, a new prince of Greenwood the Great!" Thranduil announced.

A chorus of congratulations bounced off the walls. Elves raised their crystal-clear goblets to the hail the King and his new son. Galadriel stood by her husband, hands folded under the warm sleeveless cloak she wore.

The tired mother was nowhere to be found. Instead the queen rested in her chambers while Thranduil conducted the ceremony. Laughter and banter died down. Celeborn reached under her cloak and clasped her entwined hands.

"Come, beloved! Let us wish Thranduil on his son."

It took them a while to approach Thranduil, surrounded as he was by well-wishers and allies. Thranduil wore his hair lose, and he was dressed in mild finery, as late in the night as it was. They finally reached him and Thranduil gave Galadriel his son with a quick word and a laugh.

The babe was swaddled in thick blankets, with only a wrinkly pale pink face peeking from the parted gap. He was light in her arms. He was warm and soft, and she stroked his chubby pink cheek with the smooth pad of her index finger. Legolas' eyes tightened and he threw his mouth wide open, revealing two toothless rows and a small pink tongue. Then he gave a low whimper.

Galadriel swayed lightly to soothe the babe in her arms until he settled, letting one of his fists wrap around her slender finger. The youngling's eyes fluttered until they opened. His eyes were large, innocently round and full of unbroken light. In the future, this son would be his father's pride and joy. Of that, Galadriel had no doubt. Then his eyes shuttered close, and the babe went back to sleep.

She raised her eyes to Thranduil, who spoke with her husband. Celeborn was teasing him as he gave the King some good-natured thumps on his back. The two Ellyn were glowing with happiness. The Dagorlad left them both scared, physically and emotionally. Thranduil was nearly inconsolable after his father's death. To see him rejoicing brought a smile on Galadriel's face. She reached up and touched Thranduil's face, drawing his attention towards her.

"My heart sings to see you glad, Thranduil Oropherion," Galadriel said softly, caressing the cheek of her distant kin. Thranduil smiled one of his youthful smiles that were full of light and joy.


	25. Halbarad

**Halbarad**

 _And Aragorn said to Halbarad: "What is that you bear, kinsmen?"... "It is a gift that I bring you from the Lady of Rivendell," answered Halbarad._

 _(Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King)_

When he came to bid the lady farewell, he found her waiting for him in a pavilion. She had a staff in her hand, the standard at the top wounded tightly around the post. He could not see what the standard was, for a black cloth as dark as night bound it, with silver thongs holding the cloth in place.

"This I gift to my betrothed," Arwen said as she held out the standard for Halbarad to take. "I entrust it in your keeping, so that you may give it to him when your company joins his."

He took the post from her and looked at the lady. Arwen wore a dress made of rich green fabric, dyed in a colour so deep that Halbarad knew only Elves were capable of such mastery. Her hair was braided across her back, enmeshed in ribbons and white and golden gems that glittered in the light.

"I will protect with my life if I must," he vowed. "But it will go into the king's hand before the quest is done."

"I will hold you to your promise, Halbarad," Arwen said. She raised a hand and touched the wrapped standard, her long and pale fingers hovering lightly over the cloth. "I wove the standard myself, in hopes that it is carried to his battles. I cannot accompany you with a horse and a sword. But I can take part in another way. So let the enemy flee before it!"

"We will make sure the enemy fears this standard, my lady." Halbarad said. A call rose behind him. The men were ready and Halbarad bowed his head low before the lady in farewell. Then he gripped the post tightly and he turned away.

The next words Arwen spoke halted him briefly.

"Farewell, son of Man," Arwen called behind him. "I doubt we will meet again. But do not fear death! A man like you will be welcomed like a hero, or a good friend, to the halls of the departed."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-Many thanks to my dear, dear readers who enjoy reading these scribblings as much as I enjoy writing them.

-Here, I wanted to play with the idea of how Halbarad and Arwen spoke to one another as she passed the standard to him.

-As an **additional note** , this story may have the complete status, but it is _not_ complete. I have many, many and still many characters to explore. The complete sign is there, because a time may come when the updates are somewhat sporadic, depending upon how many 'scribblings' I have in store. ;)

-Many thanks to anons Lord Illyren and guest, as every piece of encouragement matters so much to a writer!


	26. Faramir (Took)

**Faramir (Took)**

His gay laughter echoed off the walls as he scrambled through the shining floor. Father told him the entire city was made of white stone called marble that shone golden in the sunlight and silver in the moonlight.

The servants scuttled away narrowly as he ran past them as if the wind aided his heels. All around him the walls shone from the sunlight. He gave a loud laugh, and watched in fascination as it bounced off the walls and the echoes returned to him from all around him. He gave another laugh, hopped on his two tiny, hairy feet and fled into another corridor.

No one stopped him, and he passed by some whom only smiled and shook their heads. They were too tall for him, so tall in fact that it hurt his neck when he tried to look up at them. But the Big People were his father's friends, and that's why they came to visit them.

He stopped by a door and peered inside. His eyes widened as wide as possible in wonder. The floor was tiled white and black, and statues lined both sides, nestled between tall pillars. He gave a merry laugh and jumped in the room with both feet. Then he paused, gave a wide grin and ran.

Somehow he miscalculated. The floor was slippery than he thought and he was barefoot. The sole of his right heel slipped and he landed on his backside. But that was not all. He skidded round and round on the black and white marble until his back thumped gently against something.

He looked behind him, grin slightly fading to a curious smile. One of the Big People towered over him. The light from above hid most of the man's features, but he had black hair and beard and soft smile of his own. Then the man knelt down until his eyes comfortably met his own. The man wore a thoughtful face, but there was trusting gentleness in him. He saw father speaking to him earlier, when he was meant to be of to bed but instead he snuck out for adventuring.

"And you must be Faramir Took," the man said, his one hand still resting upon his curly brown head. He blinked his round eyes at him many times.

"Who are you?" Faramir Took asked. The man smiled.

"I am Faramir."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-I have an exam so, writing replies to reviews is a bit difficult. I am stuck in bit of a dilemma. I can either post updates of numerous stories, or update just one story and reply to reviews. You guys tell me. :) I will do as you wish.

-Just keep reviewing though, :P I won't lie; sometimes what you guys say help me write down another Scribble. :)


	27. Boromir

**Boromir**

The corridor was eerily silent. He hid himself in the shadows of the corridor, far from the gleaming sunshine showering from the open windows. He kept his eyes trained on the entrance of the corridor.

As expected, Faramir rounded up the corner, his nose buried in the open book in his hands. Boromir gave a dark smile. This time, his brother will not evade him. He waited until Faramir came closer- and closer…

Boromir gave a guttural battle-cry and launched on Faramir with all his might. He caught his brother off-guard and his book fell from his numb fingers. But Faramir reacted quickly as soon as Boromir's arms captured his neck in a headlock. Book forgotten, Faramir's fingers grabbed his brother's forearm and lurched forward, trying to throw his brother over himself. Boromir intercepted him and clasped his legs over Faramir's in an attempt to keep his grip on the younger man. It was a struggle of might, and strength. They were nearly men, and their honed battle-strength made the playful fight equal. Faramir stepped backwards quickly until Boromir's back slammed against the marble wall behind him. But Boromir's grip was sure and he only hung on tighter. With Boromir's body fully off the ground and on Faramir, the younger brother yelped.

"Get off! You're heavy!"

Boromir grinned and tightened his hold.

"Yield!" He commanded.

"Never!" Faramir managed to choke out.

The soft footfalls alerted them of new company. They quickly recognised it to belong to a woman, and the measured tone of it could only belong to a noblewoman. Boromir clambered off Faramir's back quickly but not before the noblewoman saw them as she turned the corner.

She was younger than either of them, and pretty in her lightly-coloured summer dress with hair braided intricately in ribbons. She was followed by her maids, who passed them disapproving looks once they noticed their dishevelled states and the book thrown against the wall.

The young lady passed before them, giving them a raised brow of bemusement. Both brothers murmured apologies. They stared at the ground, both of them slightly red.

Faramir reached up and cuffed his brother roughly at his temple. Boromir's head jerked forward and he stumbled lightly before gaining balance on his feet. When he sat up straight, he pushed back his hair and gave Faramir a sheepish grin.

Behind them both, stealthier than the two brothers, stood Denethor. He saw it all, and he noticed how his sons were rapidly growing in young men and noticing their 'surroundings'. They lost their embarrassment quickly and Boromir goaded his younger brother by grabbing his book before he could. Boromir scampered away. Faramir gave a shout of protest and ran after him. Denethor was unable to stop the smile from his face and he chose another corridor.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Because nothing beats updating when you have two assignments, two projects, two papers and one exam due. :P


	28. Thranduil II

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

"History?" It was Thranduil who echoed the word, and then the King of Eryn Lasgalen laughed. "Let me teach you, son of Eärendil, something about history."

Elrond raised both his brows but he gestured wordlessly to the King to continue. Thranduil gave him a wide grin that gave nothing away and with one flow, downed the contents of his glass before leaving his chair and stepping down the dais until he stood in front of everyone.

"I need something to write with and something to write on."

It was Lord Erestor who complied and brought him the things necessary.

And so, quarter an hour later, Thranduil twirled the piece of a chalk across his knuckles with surprising efficiency. He eyed the polished smooth blackboard in front of him and kept his silence until the anticipation of his audience grew till it was tangible.

"Allow me to introduce you to the intricate bloodline of the Elves," Thranduil said, finally facing his audience. Numerous faces watched him raptly. Laughter circulated in the crowd around him. He raised his chalk and began to write in lilting, quick tengwar. Sensing the mischief of King Thranduil, Elrond's face morphed into an amused smile he tried to keep away but it was unsuccessful. "We will start with the first Elves who awoke." Thranduil continued.

The blackboard quickly filled with pure white written letters until the entire board was filled. Thranduil's chalk was nothing more than a miserable stub between his index finger and thumb, now powdered white. He stepped back and studied the blackboard contemplatively.

"We haven't even reached the Silmarillion," Thranduil declared, eliciting another bout of laughter.

"You need to improve your writing!" Elrond called to him from where he sat, his chin resting on the palm of his hand. Thranduil grinned but refused to take the bait.

"We need another blackboard." Thranduil said to Erestor. Even the servants were grinning as they carried another blackboard and assembled it beside the already filled one. Thranduil began marking on the board again, some of which crossed comically through names and lines and even across blackboards. Thranduil stopped at Tinúviel and turned around, turning a new stalk of white chalk between the fingers of his two hands. Not once did his smile leave his face. Some would call his smile was impish, and that wasn't far from the truth. He was feeling very, very impertinent.

"And here I must claim the audacity to join our lines with that of Men, since there isn't much difference between the two Races," Thranduil gestured not too subtly towards Elrond, "and we have living proof among us." Laughter followed as usual, but Elrond buried his head in his hands breathless from it. Another blackboard was called and Thranduil mapped out the three households of Men. "And we should be grateful none of our Ellyth or Ellyn didn't decide to join with Dwarves or Imladris will have a shortage of blackboards," Thranduil added. Galadriel hid the lower half of her face in her fingers, her eyes crinkling in quiet mirth. Another blackboard was called, and yet another, until Erestor finally proclaimed he had no more to offer. But it was fortunate that Thranduil was finally finished before he needed another.

By the end of it, it was common for laughter to ring through the hall. And the blackboards were an impressive array links and interlinks between Elves and Men, before all of it finally ended down to Arwen and Aragorn.

"Someone knows their history well, your tutors will be pleased," Elrond jested. Thranduil raised a single brow.

"Tutors are entirely worthless on me, and I only learn through experience. And I can assure you I lived through most of these events written here." Thranduil said, throwing his arm back over his shoulder, thumb pointing at the tengwar. Applause echoed through the hall and Thranduil bowed with a flourish before returning to his seat beside Elrond.

"Well, at least the only blackboards that will be needed in the future will be the ones going _down_." Elrond commented after a sparse moment. Thranduil looked at him uncomprehendingly. Elrond twisted his wrist, his fingers pointing towards Aragorn and Arwen's name below.

Thranduil laughed.


	29. Eomer

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Éomer**

"There is no need to be nervous, you know." Aragorn murmured to him softly.

The king of Gondor seemed to have the talent of speaking without moving his lips, as well as maintaining a small smile while he spoke. The uncomfortable feeling of unease in his heart didn't fade.

"I understand." Éomer only said. Aragorn passed him a look of sympathy.

"People expect you to be the warrior was made king. A breach of protocol or a forgotten etiquette will easily go overlooked." Aragorn said. "Go and ask someone for a dance. I assure you the prospect isn't as frightening as it seems."

"I am not worried about breaking protocols or overstepping etiquettes." Éomer said. His clenched fists were hidden in the voluminous folds of his cloak.

"If it is the dancing that worries you, then wait for the number sixth. It's far simpler and very easily followed. Or ask one of my wife's handmaidens for a dance."

Éomer subtly eyed the she-Elves loitering in groups by the pillars at the far end of the hall. Their beauty was more than intimidating for him and he wasn't keen to approach them, especially when they were in the form of a group. He never felt so tongue-tied since his days of boyhood. The Queen spoke to her brothers at the other end of the hall, the gems on her wedding dress shining in brilliance in the light. Éomer shook his head when the cold dread pooled in his stomach.

"It's not that either, my friend." He said.

"Then, tell me, my friend, what truly concerns you?" Aragorn asked.

From the look of the Gondorian King's face, Éomer knew clearly he was growing worried. He clenched his teeth once, and then twice before mustering the courage to speak.

"All of these Elves are garbed in flowing, thick robes. How must I tell the different between a lord and a lady?"

All heads turned towards the King of Gondor as his booming laughter echoed through the hall, the poor "Warrior King" flushing red next to him.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

This... yeah. Don't blame me. Blame my friend. She mistook Legolas for a girl the first time she saw him. I was dyng to make this joke for ages. :P


	30. Arwen I

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Arwen**

Arwen sat on her lofty chair with her legs crossed. Her white dress fell in waves and gracefully clung to her figure. Her hair was clipped back from her face, bound in ribbons and ivory clasps. She gave one of her brothers a baleful look before turning her eyes to her brother.

Elrohir and Elladan both sat across from her, grim-faced but Arwen knew better. She read the relaxed signs of mirth in their forms.

"A man, sister?" Elrohir asked.

"Surprising, isn't it, brother?" Elladan said conversationally. "And this is the same sister who claimed not to love any man."

Arwen frowned dangerously at them. She kept her posture relaxed; she was a lady, after all. Elrohir stretched.

"Of course, that Elf who pined after her will be disappointed grievously… what was his name again?"

"It doesn't matter," Elladan answered graciously. He inspected his nails. "He will remain nameless, poor Elf. Our little sister's eyes are elsewhere."

Arwen pursed her lips.

"Well," Elrohir's eyes now danced in merriment. "As long as what she is looking at is modest… well, before the wedding, at least."

Her amour of courtly ladyship ripped away. A lady knew how to act in certain circumstances. In the current matter, she was a lady second and a sister first. Arwen sprang from her seat and grabbed her cushion. With a frightening accuracy, she threw it at one brother before picking another cushion. Her brothers scattered with loud laughter.

"Go away! Leave me be!"


	31. Thranduil III

**Thranduil**

The shock of the news of a Hobbit wandering in his Halls without his knowledge was slowly ebbing away. Thranduil sat on his wooden chair, his back straight and hand lightly tracing the leaves etched on the armrest. Both his steward and his commander stood behind him. A tense silence fell.

He heard his Steward give a queer little burst which he turned into a coughing fit. Thranduil ignored him. His own dignity was at stake. Admittedly, it was somewhat bruised and it will be time to nurse his wounded pride.

His steward leaned forward.

"Sire, if I may excuse myself-"

"You will stay where you are." Thranduil's words were curt.

"As you wish," the steward agreed quickly and straightened.

Thranduil sucked the inside of his lower lip between his teeth and released it. He thought of Elrond and Celeborn, and knew this was an experience he would never live down.

"My lord," his commander murmured. His voice was oddly choked. "If I may be excused, I will see whether our soldiers are in order."

Thranduil felt a bit sorry for them both. It wasn't right for him to torture them to save his own face.

"Go," Thranduil nodded. The two Elves escaped so fast from his presence that Thranduil raised his brows.

They did not get very far. The tent flap barely closed when he heard both of his most trustworthy Elves surrendered to their building laughter. Thranduil now wondered how long he would survive. He stilled his twitching lips. The situation was too ridiculous, too bizarre for him to comprehend. How could something so small and _insignificant_ manage to roam his Halls without his knowledge?

Suddenly he heard his steward say, "So that is where the king's meal disappeared soon after the capture of the Dwarves!"

Remembering the mystery of one of his meals set out in a private dining chamber, the confusion that followed, and the reprimand of a poor chef that Thranduil will now need to seek forgiveness from, Thranduil's own laugh erupted in his throat.


	32. Theoden

**Author's Note:**

There is **one** update you may have missed.

* * *

 **Théoden**

The rain pattered listlessly outside his window, the puddles on the ground making lazy swirls when the raindrops disturbed them. Théoden watched them from his chair, his legs crossed carelessly one over the other.

The rain matched his mood perfectly. He felt devoid of any warmth, his heart incapable of feeling any love. He felt just as cold inside as the chilly weather out of his window. He was wrapped in his cloak, the tray full of light food still untouched on the small table before him. He paid it no attention. Instead, his eyes drew towards the empty chair across his own, the shawl on it undisturbed for the last three weeks. He refused any servant who dared remove _her_ things. He left them the way they were. Her book was still open on her desk. Her hairbrush was still lying on the bedside table, where he brushed out her hair before she realised she was in labour.

Thunder and lightning split the sky, and the turmoil of grief and pain grew in his heat. She was no longer with him. Soon, her scent would face from her clothes. The throne that stood beside his will forever stand empty. He buried his wife, and his comrades told in few polite words to be thankful he didn't bury his only son along with her.

Tears tracked down his cheeks on their own accord. The memory of his unhealthily pale wife on a blood-sodden bed was forever branded in his memory. In the future, he will never forget her weak admission of her love to him, her quiet pride when he was presented with his firstborn and heir, her surprise and unbidden joy when he fussed over her health. But she died on that very same bed she gave birth on. He spent a long time after, kissing her fingertips and eyelids and weeping silently before he finally gained the courage and composure to rise and let the maids tend to his wife's body.

"Brother?"

He turned towards the door and gazed dully at his sister Théodwyn. She was so much like him, except in the form of a woman. Her concerned look turned into a compasson one when she saw his tears.

"Oh, my dear, poor brother!"

Théoden's silent tears turned into racking full sobs. In few steps, Théodwyn's travelling cloak fell behind her and she knelt befoe him. She embraced him as best as she could, larger and taller as he was comparted to her. Théoden held on to his sister and didn't care when he wept like a child on her shoulder.

"My poor, poor, sweet brother," Théodwyn soothed. "Béma have mercy upon you, and your heartbreak." She pulled him back and wiped away the tear stains. Lightning crackled and bathed the entire room in bright silver light. "You'll see her again." She whispered. "You'll be with her again, in the halls of our forefathers." She kissed his forehead. "She died honourably like all women who died in childbirth."

"I miss her." His voice was ragged and he didn't doubt his face was haggard from exhaustion. Théodwyn's eyes watered and she only nodded wordlessly. "It's barely three weeks."

"Such is the nature of love, brother mine." She kissed his forehead. "But that is the beauty of love. You yearn for your companion while worlds apart and once you are reunited, it is as if no time was passed." She stroked his one hand and gave him a reassuring smile. She looked past him, over his shoulder in fact, and a servant approached them with a large bundle of blankets in his arms.

"Ah, this is my brother-son," she said once she lifted Théoden's son and Rohan's heir. She cradled him in her arms and hummed softly to him. "He is indeed beautiful."

Théoden raised his hands to take his child and his sister immediately surrendered his son. He looked at the fair-skinned, rosy-cheeked healthy baby boy with a tuft of golden hair and light blue eyes peeking from under half-asleep eyelids. Théoden smiled down at him.

The clouds parted and sunlight broke through to mingle with rain.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

1356-2478: Thank you! I always found the lesser popular characters more fun to write with. :)

Guest: Thank you!

anthi35: Aw, thank you!

Lord Illyren: I couldn't resist that question at all. ;)


	33. Aragorn I

**Aragorn**

The stench of death was strong, as tangible as soil and water. He was used to the smell so much so that he didn't bother to mask it through a cloth. His bones were tired, but he trudged on. It was a duty as king, an honour as a sworn brother and a responsibility as a person to complete his tasks.

The bodies lay side by side, covered in their own shrouds. Aragorn walked past them at their feet, naming each one of them. He stopped at the last of the Rangers. He looked up and around them. Hundreds of bodies lay side by side, covered in their shrouds, Rohirric and Gondorian both. On the other side of Pelennor fields, a bonfire was lit to burn the bodies of their enemies. Then he looked down upon

"Farewell, my brothers," Aragorn murmured. "You have served your king and kingdom well, and aided me, your brother and companion. We will meet again."


	34. Black Rider

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Black Rider**

Did he have a name?

He could not remember. The sunlight hurt him, and the sight of Men, Elves and Dwarves disgusted him.

Kill them. Torture them. Destroy them.

Why did they possess such brightness? Did their eyes not hurt them? Did their skin not burn?

Snatch it away. Quench the light.

He tried to reach for the brightness. See how it tasted. See how it felt. But he could not. Was he like them? Did he have laughter and joy in his life?

He could not remember.

Even Orcs laughed, when the blood of their Enemy, especially children and Elves spilled from their swords. Even the Orcs felt joy, when the bloodlust hit them.

He felt nothing.

Bright. Bright. That woman who killed the Witch-King is too bright. He must flee.

They have come. There was a tug on his mind. The master was calling. There was nothing for him to do here. He needed to go. He needed to leave. The ships were here. Good. Good. But the corsairs were not the ones who came from it. It was the Enemy!

They lost.

He snarled and commanded his beast to leave.

Bind them.

Bind them all in the darkness.


	35. Ivriniel

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Ivriniel**

She twirled the water lily between her fingers.

"Would you marry a knight or a king?" She asked. Finduilas lay beside her on the soft meadow grass. Her eyes were closed, head upward to enjoy the sunlight.

"Marriage?" Finduilas' voice was teasing. "Hmmm, I will tell father you are having unladylike thoughts concerning men."

Ivriniel dropped the water lily on her sister's face. Finduilas gave an outraged gasp and swatted the lily away before laughing. Pretty blue eyes met her darker blue ones. Finduilas was not beautiful, but she was pretty, in a lively, innocent maidenly way.

"Well, with your looks, my dear sister," Finduilas said, turning to her side. Free black hair spilled behind her. Finduilas' eyes were dancing in mischief. "I am sure you can snare even a king." Ivriniel reddened. She possessed a darker beauty, much womanly and sensual.

"I don't want as high a station as my beauty is capable of giving me," Ivriniel commented. "But a man with a faithful heart and a good soul is more than enough for me."

"Well, then," Finduilas said briskly. She tugged two blades of grass and offered one to her. Bemused, Ivriniel accepted.

"Here's to a husband with a faithful heart and a good soul," Finduilas winked at her. "And of course, may he be handsome as all our heart's desire."

She held up her blade of grass and laughing, Ivriniel hit it with her own.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

This one and the previous one were taken down and put up again due to an error. I am sorry for the inconvenience.

Do leave a review. :)


	36. Legolas

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Legolas**

Chink. Chink. Chink.

It hammered so softly in Legolas' eardrums that at first he thought he could ignore it. But as each second passed, the soft tinkering seemed to grow louder. And louder. And louder.

He cracked open an eyelid and peered at his friend. Gimli sat contentedly by his head, smoking from his pipe and deep in thought. He was content here in the caves of Helm's Deep, where he and his fellow Dwarves toiled to work the gems free from the walls. This was only a part of the cave. The rest of the Dwarves toiled deeper to make a city for the Dwarves to live.

Chink. Chink. Chink.

It was useless. Finally, Legolas heaved a heavy sigh and sat up.

"Tell me, Master Dwarf," Legolas said in a measured, exaggerated tone. "How do you sleep with this incessant _noise_?"


	37. Legolas I

**Legolas**

He could feel their sorrow, their grief. He felt it as if it were his own. The grass was lush green and the stones stood out in the colour of stark grey.

He knew the history of Hollin. It was once called Eregion. Here the Noldor dwelled after the First Age. He remembered his father's stories from his childhood, remembered how his tutor painted the glorious pictures of the Noldor hammering and tinkering away in their forges with the desire to create things no one else could create. He remembered listening to the creation of the Rings of Power, how the Elves learned they were betrayed, how only the three Rings of Power for the Elves were saved. He heard the stones lament. They remembered the marching of the Enemy into Eregion. The Dwarves helped but it was in vain. The forges lost their fire, the buildings were torn down, and anything that could burn, burned.

He wondered if the stones knew of the making of the Rings, how the One Ring once more passed through their land, the reason for all their sorrow.

He became aware of someone standing beside him and he turned. Frodo stood staring at the landscape.

"This was Eregion, where the Rings of Power were made?" Frodo asked. Legolas knew it was Bilbo's teaching that credited this.

"Aye," Legolas said. "This was Eregion, where the Rings were made, except for the one that you carry."

"This was where it all began," Frodo said. "Strange, is it not, that the Ring should pass through here in our attempt to destroy it. I wonder if we will end the same way as the Elves and Dwarves here ended their fate, or we will have victory instead."

"I think only time will tell, Master Frodo." Legolas said thoughtfully. "Only time will tell."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I am currently unable to reply to private messages and reviews due to shortage of time. But I am here and writing. :)


	38. Thranduil IV

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

"Oropher's heart was in the right place but his charge was still mistimed." Erestor remarked.

Few Elves glanced towards Thranduil but the Elven King calmly sipped his wine.

"Come, come, Lord Erestor," Thranduil said once he set down his glass. "Surely such debates are unsuited for this table, particularly on the day of your Lord's wedding."

Lord Elrond was not in their company. Rather he was dancing with his bride in the field. A merry tune played in the background.

"You do not agree?"

"My people were ill-fitted for war," Thranduil sat back in his chair. "They wore only light armour, and their weapons were not of great make. My father's charge was early, it is true but if you ask whether I agree or not, I would ask in return; why King Gil-Galad stayed behind. We answered his call even though it was against logic. He did not return the favour."

"Much sorrow fell upon the Elves during the Battle of Dagorlad from which I doubt we will wholly recover." Galadriel sat. Her glass was untouched. "To learn who was in the right or in the wrong or what better course could have come is fruitless. It is better to enjoy the peace we have won from it." But Lord Erestor was unconvinced.

"Still, Lady Galadriel, it is an important piece of history. One can draw many lessons from it-"

"Lessons are meant to be learned in libraries and in front of scholars, Erestor, not in a wedding we eagerly awaited." Thranduil interrupted.

All of them knew it was simply in Erestor's nature to spark a debate. He never meant any harm; it was simply a conversation. But Celeborn's quiet voice broke their conversation.

"If you wish to bicker on the past that cannot be changed like children over toys, I would suggest taking it away from the feast so that I enjoy my daughter's wedding in peace."

Galadriel laughed and place her hand upon her husband's.

"Be easy," Galadriel's lips were turned upwards. "It is great news indeed that Thranduil learned to rein in his temper."

Thranduil laughed and leaned back in his seat.

"I learned to rein in my temper the day Celeborn declared he would take you as his bride."

The table fell silent.

"Truly?" Galadriel said. "You surprise me. I never expected you to dislike me for my Noldorin descent."

"You misunderstand me. I withheld my temper not because of his marriage to the half-niece of Fëanor. I withheld my temper because the fool would not admit he was in love in me and my father's presence!" Laughter rose up and Celeborn gave his kin a broad smile.

"I am surprised you were not offended," Glorfindel said. "Many were not pleased by the presence of the Noldor for the sorrow they brought. I would have expected you to be among them."

Thranduil looked at Glorfindel and then leaned forward and looked at Galadriel along the table.

"Did you kill any of my kin at Alqualondë?"

"Absolutely not," Galadriel replied, in the same pretended serious tone as Thranduil.

"Well, there you have your answer, Lord Glorfindel." Thranduil said, leaning back in his chair. "The Lady Galadriel is completely safe from my wrath."

"A fact that I am immensely grateful for, if the tales of your temper are to be believed," Galadriel said.

"I must assure you, my lady, you are as safe as any Elf can be, particularly this night."

It was then Elrond and Celebrían reached their table. All of them could not help but smile at the new couple, what with their obvious happiness.

"One could see from the field that this table was in a deep discussion. May I ask what its nature was?"

"Debates, negotiations, and books can wait tonight, my friend." Thranduil said before anyone else could answer. "Tonight is simply a time to rejoice, and that is something I have to keep insisting, it seems."

"If it is, then you must join the dance."

"I cannot keep my glass full on a field, Elrond."

"What he means is that he does not wish to be ensnared in the clutches of many young Ellyth so quickly into kingship," Galadriel said lightly. Everyone laughed.

"You know me too well, my lady."

"Perhaps, in time, we will find you a wife." Elrond said. The two friends stared at each with barely suppressed amusement and Thranduil lazily raised his glass to be refilled.

"I will leave you to find me a bride."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-Many Fanfiction stories, including my own, depict Thranduil with a dislike for Galadriel.

-Canonically, however, there is no evidence that Thranduil had such relationship with Galadriel.

-Since these scribblings follow canon, I wanted to try something different than the cliché.

-Regarding Elrond and Thranduil's friendship, both were in Lindon during the Second Age, if my reading was done correctly, hence they must have come across each other, given that both are from royal bloodlines.


	39. Arwen II

**Arwen**

Her fingers worked fervently, the leader passing to and fro over the threads on the loom. She thought of hope, of happiness and joy and let her emotions flow into her work. The black thread danced over the loom.

She thought of Aragorn's accounts of Gondor. She remembered how he described Minas Tirith, a white city built completely of marble against the mountainside, turned golden by the sun's rays. She nearly memorised what he said about Dol Amroth, a grey city with blue roofs and a cloudy sky. The Sea was turbulent and dark on stormy days, and calm and fluid when the sun shone. Her fingers worked on their own, weaving until she alternated between black and silver. An image sprang forth from the loom; the King's standard.

She thought of her beloved, dressed in the garments of a Ranger, with weary feet from wandering. Strange, for a King to wander over the plains when there was a throne that waited for him.

Her fingers were quick and yet the work was flawless. She murmured numbers under her breath as the rows of threads increased. The standard was almost complete.

The thread on her leader ran out.

Arwen sat back, tired. It was done. A single white tree lay across the background of black, and crowned with white stars. She cut off the thread and pulled it free from the loom. She wove in the free ends. She rolled it carefully. All that she needed was to set it on a post and bind it with clasps.

"Fare winds to thee, beloved," she murmured softly, a prayer for her betrothed.


	40. Galadriel I

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this one.

* * *

 **Galadriel**

She concentrated her power on the fortress looming above her. The armies fought; dark and rich Mirkwood colours of Lórien. She caught of Thranduil, his golden hair gleaming bright as he led his soldiers up the bare hill.

"My lady!" She heard a shout. The ground below her gave way and her concentration snapped like a fragile thread severed by a sharp knife. The fortress came tumbling down. She was pushed to the side by a heavy body against her lighter one. Haldir did not fall far but the ground continued to crumble. He looked at her once before he fell into the abyss.

"Haldir!" She cried and lunged after him. She was stopped when a strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back. Galadriel fought against her husband's grasp but Celeborn held fast. The stones fell like heavy rain and buried the Elves who slipped underneath.

"Galadriel, enough!" Celeborn ordered, never releasing his wife. "There is little that could be done for them now. Such is the price of war."

Later, she managed to lay bare the pits and clear the rubble. They did not let her see the body. It was not the way she would wish to remember him, they told her. So when she paid her respects, his body was shrouded by his cloak. She placed her hand over where she suspected his forehead was and murmured a prayer.

"You asked me once not too long ago if the trees of Lórien dwelled in Aman." Galadriel whispered to him. "I did not answer, for the pain of remembering my homeland was too much. I was selfish. But hear me, my faithful warden, there are trees more beautiful and more everlasting than the ones you love. Lórien was but an illusion of a place frozen in time. But the world you will pass to is always moving and yet its trees never die, and their light never sleeps. Rest, my warden. You will soon open your eyes to them."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

-My version of killing off Haldir.

-I did genuinely search for his fate. I head once that he indeed survived the War of the Ring and continued to serve the Lady. Others said he perished during the War. Since his fate is unknown, I thought it was A-okay to play with his end. :P


	41. Thranduil V

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this one.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

The birds sang sweetly outside his open window. Thranduil sat on the settee, looking outside. Two Ellyth passed by his tree, clutching one another and giggling amongst themselves. He smiled at the sight and sipped his glass of cider.

One of his hounds hopped up and curled on his lap, her tail thumping against his legs. He ran his free hand through her golden fur, enjoying the softness of it. The sun shone through the network of leaves and his hound's fiery seemed fiery bright gold in its light.

"Did you know?" He asked his hound softly, rubbing her ears. He spoke quietly, as if did not want to ruin the peaceful morning. The hound whined and shook her head before pressing it again against the palm of his hand. "Elrond's getting married today."


	42. Grima

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this one.

* * *

 **Gríma**

He pulled his sword free and peered into the forest. He made a mistake. Many of their folktales forbade them from entering Fangorn Forest and those that did were called forest.

The forest air was dense and heavy to breathe in. No life fluttered among the trees. And yet the forest felt oddly alive. It was gloomy and dark. Even in the light, he doubted the sun bore through the patchwork of leaves.

There was a rumble around him. He looked frantically. Boughs bents and trunks creaked. He felt restlessness inside him. Something approached and he knew not what.

There was an audible creak of a dry twig. He turned around, waving his sword in the air.

An old man stood before him, bent with age. One hand clutched a white staff like a claw and other clutched his robes. At first he thought the robes were white in colour but when he looked closer, it was a myriad of colours blended in such a way that it seemed white. The man's hair was long and it was white with streaks of black. His beard was the same.

"Welcome, son of Rohan," the man crooned softly. Gríma's sword lowered a fraction in surprise. The place was ominous and only the man was the friendliest he found among them. The man freed his robes and reached out, palm up in invitation. "Lower thy sword. There is no need of it."

The man was right. As if in a daze, he lowered it until its point dug in the ground. The man gave a slow smile. To Gríma, t seemed calming and honest.

"Come with me. I have proposal that shall suit thee."

The man turned and began to walk. Gríma followed, sword dragging in the soil until darkness enveloped him.


	43. Lothiriel

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this one.

* * *

 **Lothíriel**

Some teased her she was marrying a brute. Others hastily soothed her that he was anything but.

What was she to say? It was unseemly to meet your betrothed without a chaperon and he said very little when there was a third party lurking in the shadows during their brief meetings.

He was certainly formidable. He was well-muscled, most likely from the weight of both his armour and his sword. He was grim, but that was not new to her. Most men who were high in both prowess and rank, much like her brothers, were grim.

He did not change much after the wedding. There was never a sharp edge in his manners regarding her. He was almost gruff. But he caught how he lingered by her horse when it shifted nervously, his anxiety when she missed her home and his distant manner while he covered her with another fur to ward off the nightly cold. His love and care shone more in his actions than in his words.

His room was utilitarian. And that did not suprrise her either. She knew full well that even the furniture in her brothers' rooms was sparse. They only kept the things that were functional. But the room had no need to look so sober. So once she bade the women to accompany her and they gathered flowers from the gardens and arranged them on vases. She decorated their rooms with it and waited for her husband to see them in the night.

He entered, exhausted from the day's errands and stopped short at the threshold.

Éomer looked around the room once and then met her eyes. He smiled, albeit hesitantly. It surprised her. It was gentle and warm.

She smiled back.


	44. Borlas

**Borlas**

The man who sat before him was old. He was bent and thin with age, the skin on his hands spotted and leathery. His hair and beard was pure white, his face wrinkled but his sharp grey eyes glinted with alertness.

"Time passed quickly." Borlas murmured. The man before him smiled.

"Aye, it did." The man's voice rasped against his throat. Borlas frowned, got up and filled a glass of water for him. He brought it back and offered it to the man, who smiled in gratitude and took a few sips. Borlas did not sit.

"There was a time when I used to play in these corridors with my brother," Borlas' tone caught a wistful edge. "So much has changed since then."

"All things must come to an end." His companion said wisely. The man's voice was reasonably better. There was a soft clink when the glass was set on a nearby table.

"And with it even the Golden Age of King Elessar's rule." Borlas sighed. He knelt before the elderly and bowed his head before him. "What am I to do, Lord Faramir? Neither your passing not that of your comrades will change the fate of our future. But I am wary of taking responsibility for it. What if my duty overwhelms me? What if I fail to protect this kingdom?"

Faramir's hand rested on top of Borlas' head. It was light and comforting.

"No burden is too great for its bearer." Faramir advised him quietly. "If a duty is given to you, then it means that you are best suited for a task. All you have to see is that it is accomplished in the time you are given, to be successful." Faramir's voice was fatherly, kindly.

Tired, Faramir's hand slipped off his head. When Borlas looked up, Faramir leaned back his head and closed his eyes.

"You are tired. I didn't mean to keep you awake for my sake. Forgive me."

Faramir chuckled softly.

"Do not worry." He said. Faramir opened one eye and focused at him before closing it again. "It is the elderly's chore to advise and the youth's duty not to listen."

Borlas laughed and kissed his lord's hand in affection.


	45. Gilraen

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Gilraen**

Elrond's brows snapped close in a frown.

"You wish to leave?" He asked in surprise and confusion.

Gilraen nodded wordlessly. She stood in front of his desk with her hands clasped before her, even when he offered her a chair. He sat behind his desk, sprawled leisurely in his chair, his desk strewn with papers of importance.

Elrond gave a soft sigh and sat straight. He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He rubbed his hands up and down his face before he raised his eyes to meet hers. For a moment she pitied the esteemed Lord. He seemed weary. He leaned forward and placed both his hands upon his desk.

"Has something gone amiss?" He asked softly. "Tell me, and I will remedy it."

How can an Elf, older than the ancestors long forgotten, remind her of her husband? There was a brief flicker of resemblance across Elrond's face and there was no doubt in her mind that her husband was indeed his kin, albeit a mortal one. She never missed her lord husband as much as she did in the recent years. Aragorn's long absence worsened her feelings, and as each day passed she found her body grew older. Among the Elves, her aging only stood out starkly. Among her own, she could at least feel her mortality was not unusual.

"I was well taken care of, and whatever I asked for, I was given and more," Gilraen assuaged him. "But there is nothing more for me here," Elrond rose from his chair, ready to argue but she held up her hand. "My son is loved. He was raised here. His memories of father are only of you. This is his home. But as for myself, I miss my people. I wish to return to them." Elrond remained where he was, studying her with his grey eyes. It never ceased to amaze her how much he discerned simply by doing that. Then he sighed and relented.

"Very well," he said at last. "I will arrange a company for you to escort you to the nearest settlement."


	46. Faramir 3

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Faramir**

"You love her."

Boromir leaned back and breathed in contentedly. Faramir did the same. The warm sunlight caressed them and the wind was cool and gentle.

"Aye."

Faramir heard the ducks take flight. The water on the lake before them sparkled. The scent of air was fresh and clean.

"Does she love you in return?"

Both were dressed in white.

"With all her heart, I am sure."

Boromir looked at him with a bright smile. Faramir never saw him so carefree, so content. Faramir's smile faltered.

"You aren't here."

Boromir's smile dampened. He looked sorrowful.

"Nay, I am not. But I love you still, little brother."

"I wish you were."

"I am. In your memories," Boromir's smile widened. Sunshine played with his hair, turning his hair light brown. The light continued to grow, blinding Faramir. Boromir's voice faded, "We will meet again, little brother. Be happy."

He looked at Éowyn. His wife was still fast asleep beside him. Her golden hair covered part of her face and her pillow.

"Aye," Faramir said softly. "I love her."


	47. Legolas 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Legolas**

His quill scratched over parchment, burgundy lettering curving on the surface. Golden sunlight streamed from the window behind him, warming his head, neck and shoulders.

Something wooden scraped over the stone floor. Legolas looked up. His daughter dragged a chair across the room. He stopped and smiled lovingly. She took after him in more ways than one, in her golden hair and bright eyes. She stopped the chair in front of a shelf and climbed it. She stood on her toes, hands reaching for his bow on a stand resting on the shelf. In an instant, he abandoned his work and reached her in few strides.

"Oh, no, no, no," Legolas murmured. He grabbed her by the middle and lifted her clean off the chair just as her fingers grabbed his bow. "This is a toy of war, not for children." She giggled and twisted in his grasp. She nuzzled her head against his neck and played with his cheeks. Legolas laughed. "No amount of loving will sway my decision, young one." She gave a pout and pecked his cheek. Then she leaped down from his arms and ran for his desk, where his glass ink pots and delicate work lay. He ran after her.

"Oh, no, you don't!"


	48. Man

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Man**

"Hurry up, maggot!" The leader hissed.

"I am hurrying as fast as I can." The younger man snarled. The leader bared yellowing teeth and bounded up the ruined hall. The younger one followed, trying to keep up. They were both scruffy and dirty from the ruins.

Legend said that the city was once called Minas Tirith, or the City of Kings. It was magnificent even in ruins. The white marble walls were mostly standing. The ground was cracked in most places. They stood in a hall that once used to be the throne room. The two thrones of the monarchs as well as the throne of the steward were broken and covered with moss. Starlight shone from the gaping hole in the ceiling above them. The younger thief felt the unpleasant prickling sensation as he passed the statues arming the throne room on either side. They were covered with climbing vines. A bird nested on top of a king's head, his name long forgotten. Most of their eyes were gouged out by the weather, but it felt as if they were alive and watching his every move.

"Move it, whelp!" He heard a snarl echo deeper within. He jumped before realising it was his companion. "I will slit your throat if you take any longer!" He grumbled but he obeyed nevertheless.

He reunited with the older thief at two doors shut tightly and barred.

"Here we are." The leader sounded pleased. He looked nervously at the doors.

"What if there's a trap?" He asked, fearful. Wind blew through the silent halls, hauntingly beautiful and eerie at the same time.

"Them Men of Gondor were soft-hearted fools, if history is to be believed. Trust me. There is nothing waiting on the other side except riches." The wood of the two doors were covered with moss and mould. The leader pressed his hands on doors and pushed. He did the same. The doors broke through and they nearly fell flat on their faces. The leader looked up and gave a joyous laugh.

The room was built in the form of a circle, with a vaulted ceiling and a balcony on the far side. He went to the balcony and looked down. There was a sheer drop below. He looked at the middle of the room at their main goal.

A tomb lay right in the centre of the room. A statue was curved from the lid, of a sleeping king with a crown on his head and his sword underneath his folded hands. His companion was already struggling to push the lid free.

"Come, help me, maggot!"

He hastened to his side and together they pushed until at last the lid gave way. It fell on the ground and it shattered into numerous pieces. The king's face was no longer recognisable.

He looked down at the corpse inhabiting the tomb and felt a chill of fear. The king was still dressed in tatters of regal clothing of a style long dead. His body was only made of bones and tufts of white hair still clung to his skull. A crown adorned his head. His hands clasped a sword's hilt on his chest.

"Ha!" The leader explained happily and dove for the sword with greedy fingers. He pulled it free, heedless as how the corpse's arms flopped to the sides. He held it up. "This is here we are for, boy! The famed Andúril. It will fetch us a pretty price!"

The sheath for Andúril was beautiful. When his companion pulled the hilt, the blade appeared before his eyes, shining bright. He touched it reverently and gasped when it sliced open his finger.

"Still sharp," he answered gruffly. The leader nodded eagerly.

"Them mystic Elves forged the sword again, you know. They say the blade can never be broken or dulled." He returned it to its sheath and hoisted the sword on his back and secured it with a piece of rope. "Grab everything else that you can find and hurry!"

They scoured the halls until they filled their sacks with as much gold and jewels as they could carry. At last they left behind the tomb and city behind.

They did not even bother to cover the corpse.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I am utterly shameless.


	49. Elfwine

**Elfwine**

It was eerily quiet in the middle of the night. Not a soul stirred as he padded across the dimly lit golden hall with its empty thrones. His bare feet barely made a whisper and his heart thudded wildly in his chest. He held his candle higher and followed a well-tread path that he used for the last few weeks.

He entered a long narrow room lined with two columns of tables. The counters were cleared and fireplaces were empty of ashes and wood.

"Who goes there?"

He skidded to a halt, a sharp end of a stone in the flooring jabbing painfully at his right big toe. He flushed deep crimson and turned around, looking sheepishly at the newcomer.

His father stood in the doorway, in the same state of undress as he. Éomer peered at him and grinned widely.

"I suspect you were hungry, boy?"

Abashed, Elfwine nodded wordlessly. His father laughed, a sound rumbling deep from his chest. Most said he took after him in his figure, even if his face resembled his maternal grandfather more. Éomer entered the kitchens and swept past him, to the pantry where the cooks kept some foods in reserves.

"I was just like you when I was a lad," Éomer reappeared with two wide trays laden with pies and biscuits, balanced on either arm. "I never had enough to eat. Théodred always claimed I'd start a famine in Edoras if I never stopped growing." He laid the trays in front of Elfwine and grabbed two sets of fork and spoon from a nearby drawer. "Eat, boy."

"If I should eat because I am growing then what about you?" Elfwine asked his father. "I did not expect to see you awake this late at night."

"Your mother will not let me have second servings." Éomer explained, fitting a spoonful of meat pie into his mouth. "So I wait for her to go to sleep." Elfwine grinned and dug into his own tray.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I apologize for the lack of cluster updates. My laptop just returned after its hard drive burned out and consequently I lost all of my data.


	50. Eldarion

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Eldarion**

He clutched the sword in his hands, both of them fitting snugly on the hilt. He gave it a few swings and loved the way it sliced the wind. He swung around the room in an intricate dance, felling imaginary foes at every turn until he stood in front of his aging king.

Aragorn smiled up to his son, his hair now as white as snow and wrinkles creasing around his lips and eyes. Gnarled bony hands with popping blue veins gripped his sceptre.

"Well?" Aragorn asked, voice rasping against his throat. "What think you of Andúril?"

Eldarion frowned and looked down at the glimmering blade. For as long as he knew, he never saw it once with a dull or notched edge. He picked up the sheath lying on the bench beside his father and covered it in one swift move. He offered it to his father, hilt first.

"It suits thee more than it does me." Eldarion said. Aragorn smiled and accepted it.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I always wanted to know what Eldarion thought of Anduril. Did he feel it was his by right of birth? Or did he revere it enough to let it rest along with his father?


	51. Elrond 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Elrond**

He watched every stroke of the brush. He watched the champagne-coloured gems sparkle in the sunlight. The silver-golden hair shone bright golden. He distantly heard the birds chirp merrily, like they always did. He loved to hear them in the mornings, when he wanted some seclusion. But he did not want to be alone now.

The paintbrush stopped and Celebrían looked at him accusingly, both fine eyebrows pulled into a small frown. Elrond sat up a little straighter. Was he caught staring? He hoped not!

"Are you listening, my lord?" She demanded. Her earrings sparkled when she shook her head. She placed her brush in the holder by the easel. Elrond looked at it in dismay. His time was over. "My lord, you and the rest of your soldiers are precisely the same; handsome, bold, famous for their bravery on the field and yet your eyes glaze like glass when their female company so much as mentions dresses, hairstyles and jewellery." She rose up and ran her hands over her flowing white robes. She turned the easel towards him, his portrait half-finished. "What do you think?"

He was not looking at her painting. He was still staring at her when his tongue ran without any common sense.

"Beautiful," he blurted.

Celebrían blushed.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Ah, love encased in a bud, ready to bloom.

(By the way, I just realized I passed 50 chapters. Yay me!)


	52. Eldarion 1

**Eldarion**

His son wore the same princely crown that he once wore when he was not a king and his father was alive.

He shared the same look of a Númenórean; grey eyes, tall and black hair and beard. He was handsome and his manner was charming. Only those who were close to Eldarion's firstborn son knew him for whom he was. He was cold, calculating and ambitious. It was a dangerous mix.

He inherited Elven features that only sharpened his cheekbones, made him taller and more gaunt looking. But his charm and guileless manner gained numerous supporters. Eldarion dreaded to think what would happen once he holds both crown and sceptre.

He looked away and sighed softly.

 _Forgive me, father. I did not raise my son the way you raised yours._

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I was asked what I thought of the generations coming after the War of the Ring. Here is my answer. :)


	53. Duinhir

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Duilin**

The ground shook as violently as his heart in his rib cage. Was it possible to feel the tremors of the land churning under his feet and hear it with his ears? He certainly felt that way.

The monsters that approached him with each giant step that caused the earth to tremble belonged only in lore and old wives' tales to frighten children. And yet they were so very real. Beside him, he felt his brother shiver and give a breath of a curse.

"Stand strong, my brother," Duilin said. Derufin nodded tightly and hoisted up his bow.

There was only one way he could possibly think of to kill such a large and unnatural beast: an arrow straight through the eye. Their feet were large and almost round, and they left deep depressions in the ground as they passed. Duilin shouldered his quiver and sped on the other side of the high platform. His brother did the same on the other side, to allow the Oliphaunts to pass through. They were manned by dark-skinned men dressed in wondrous colours of gold and red. Their faces were painted with white in the likeness of skulls. They held large, curved horns in their hands. As they drew near, they blew through the horns and Duilin felt his heart vibrate in symphony with the horn's blast.

Their bows sang as they released one arrow after another. Most arrows struck their skin but it did them little harm. Their hides were tougher than armours of steel and impenetrable to arrows. They shot higher and higher. Duilin caught an Oliphaunt in his eye. It reared on its hind legs, nearly removing its riders from their carrier. Derufin brought down another. But one of the Oliphaunt was cunning; it swiped his trunk across the platform, bringing down Derufin and his men onto the lower ground like tin soldiers tumbling from a child's canister.

The Oliphaunt brought up one foot high in the air. Its riders cheered on as the foot descended, crushing his brother and his men underneath.

The scream that erupted from his throat could only belong to a wraith.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Duilin was one of the two sons of Lord Duinhir and both later perished in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. They led their archer to bring down Oliphaunts, which was, in the beginning successful, until they were trampled.


	54. Eowyn 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Éowyn**

Men. They only had their minds fixed on women.

"Will you not have me?"

The question was softly put, but there was certain danger behind it that she could not name. And she felt the underlying sadness, as if the man knew what her answer was.

She turned to the man before her. The man was older than her brother but still young. His hair was bright gold and framed his face. There was no beard, for he was unable to grow one.

"I said it once before Gríma," she said, turning her head away and looking out the window. Buildings rose before her. "I will not offer my hand in marriage, not even if I grow old and barren."

There was a long pause.

"And what would it take for a man to prove his love and devotion to you?" He asked quietly.

Éowyn allowed a bitter smile on her face.

"I would that he leaves me in peace and not keep me in a gilded cage or as an ornament to adorn his hall. I would that he accepts me as I am, and not expect me to be more. And those are rare men to find."

Gríma fell silent. Quiet footfalls heralded his departure, but Éowyn wondered if the shattering she heard soon after he disappeared was some unfortunate vase or his own heart.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Now, personally, I think Grima deserved what he got and that h was a snivelling, irritating, deceitful, disgusting, cowardly, spineless spawn of snivelling etc etc man, BUT since I am exploring everything, I would like to think he was brave and chivalrous once... long ago... maybe.


	55. Elrond 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Elrond**

"I do not need a chaperone," Elrond said through gritted teeth. Thranduil followed him with any hesitation in his steps, thumbs stuck in his belt and an insufferable grin on his face.

"I am well aware you do not." Thranduil agreed. "But your lady bride, however, needs one."

"My," Celebrían remarked mildly. "You seem to suggest that I may be the one making advances and not he."

"That is precisely what I am suggesting."

Elrond exclaimed in surprised outrage and Celebrían laughed merrily, unperturbed. Thranduil looked down at her, eyes gleaming in amusement.

"And you believe that Lord Elrond will be safe if you kept us company?" She asked wryly. Elrond was alarmed at how the conversation took an unexpected turn. Thranduil winked at the poor Lord of Imladris and indulged the lady.

"I am sure I am capable of stopping major events before they are set in irreversible motion," he quipped. There was a mischievous gleam in Celebrían's eye. She seemed to enjoy finally meeting an equal opponent.

"I am sure that will not happen," Elrond interjected feebly. Neither of them noticed him.

"Capable? Would you use force or persuasion?"

"I would beg, if I need to." Thranduil answered, grinning.

"I highly doubt you are as accomplished as you claim, Sire." Celebrían waved a dismissive hand. Then she turned to Elrond and gave him a peck on the lips. The Lord of Imladris remained still with a comical mixture of shock and surprise frozen on his face. Celebrían turned her attention to Thranduil. "There, I call a bluff to your claim." She fell into a graceful curtsy. "My lords, I must excuse myself."

With that, Celebrían confidently walked away.

"I like her," Thranduil remarked. He turned to Elrond, who was still shocked. "When will you marry her?"

Elrond scowled. He suddenly became aware of where they were standing, on a bridge over a shallow river. Elrond grabbed Thranduil by the back of his neck and pushed him over the fence with one strong motion. Thranduil was not given a moment to retaliate.

"Soon, if Eru is inclined!" He called after his friend as soon as he crashed into the water.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Well... my reasoning for this one is that both Elrond and Thranduil are excruciatingly old compared to the younger Celebrian. I always imagined her livelier and bolder than Elrond. oh and Thranduil could not resist teasing him. :P


	56. Thranduil VI

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

"Do you wish to know what they say about us?" Thranduil questioned Elrond. The Lord of Imladris perused through a book of leisure as he reclined in his lofty chair, his feet propped up on a footstool.

"Nay," Elrond answered shortly, refusing to glance up. Thranduil chuckled and eyed his chessboard critically before making another move.

"They remark that you and I behave as a married couple," Thranduil explained nevertheless. His eyes twinkled in mirth and his voice trembled. That earned him an incredulous glance from Elrond.

"Truly?" Elrond asked in disbelief.

"Truly," Thranduil promised. Elrond closed his book, one finger marking the page he was reading.

"And what brought such an outrageous thought to their minds?"

"It seems that we have a certain affinity that they find difficult to describe. More than a friendship... You may almost call it companionship." Thranduil waited eagerly for Elrond's reaction.

Elrond studied his eager expression and the silent prodding in Thranduil's manner, sighed and returned his attention to his book, his expression belonging that to an Elf who was under long suffering.

"If that is true, then I call for an annulment."

Thranduil laughed.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Some reader once noted that in my Scribblings, Thranduil and Elrond always have good relations (and is building) when I mentioned I would explore every possibility in the beginning.

Blasphemy, I say! :P


	57. Celebrimbor

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **five** updates before this.

* * *

 **Celebrimbor**

The face that loomed above him was so different and yet so familiar. It was pleasant to look at, for everything from the eyebrows to the lips was set in perfect symmetry. But it seemed twisted and corrupted from rage and darkness.

"Where is it?" His once-friend hissed at him, his patience wearing thin. Celebrimbor smiled. He was afraid, and he was not ashamed to admit it. His knees would have trembled had they not been forced to kneel. The two Orcs holding him yanked his arms further behind him. His bones groaned in protest and pain lanced through his body. But he did not relent.

"Gone," he answered. "Far from you. Your hands will not sully them like you sullied the other Rings."

The Orcs yanked his arms sharply behind him and two loud cracks echoed in the empty hall. Celebrimbor screamed and his head hung low, unspeakable pain erupting from both his broken arms.

"Where are they?" His once-friend interrogated again.

"Gone," Celebrimbor answered with gasps. "Far from you. Your hands will not sully them like you sullied the other Rings."

Perspiration flowed from his forehead, stinging his eyes. Smooth fingers grabbed his chin and forced him to look up.

"Where are they?" He asked again. Celebrimbor spat on his face. He recoiled.

"Ask again, Annatar," Celebrimbor hissed. "But the answer will remain the same. You will never touch the Elven Realms. That I promise you." Annatar looked at him, eyes blazing red with fury. He wiped saliva with the back of his right hand. A golden ring, perfectly formed, gleamed on his finger.

"They distrusted you." Celebrimbor said. "And I was a fool not to listen. But here I am. Let me the first of my kind to openly defy you. I know what you are! You are Sauron! You are the Abhorred! You are the Deceiver! You may think that you are powerful, powerful just as your master was, but you will be defeated in time. And you will perish by the one you seemed insignificant. Remember that!"

Pain was his companion when he finished. The Orcs twisted his arms and pulled them apart. An agonising scream tore from his throat. Unbidden tears dripped from his eyes. He felt a hand clasp his head by his hair and push it back.

"I shall make an example of you," Sauron murmured.

"Good," Celebrimbor rasped. "If you are to pay for your mistakes in the future, then I must pay for mine."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

A little bit of foresight on Celebrimbor's part. I always liked to criticise the fact that Tolkien rarely played the foresight or Valar card in LoTR, while it is a dminant part in the Silmarillion. Regardless, I wanted to add foresight since it plays a noticeable role among Noldor.

Do give me a few ideas if you have them! I always need some inspiration and I love hearing frm you guys. I am trying to begin sending replies but nearly half of my keyboard is not working. Please bear with me. (smiley face 'cause the colon is not working!)


	58. Erkenbrand

**Erkenbrand**

The red-dyed leather gleamed in the torchlight. The pattern on the chest was of fine craftsmanship. A sun was carved in the middle, surrounded by radiant rays. Intricate patterns covered the rest of the chest. The back was fairly simple; the design only followed over the shoulders and met just below his neck. The rest of the armour was just as fine.

"Is it not too extravagant?" He asked, still admiring the armour.

"You are the champion of our people," Théoden said with a friendly clap on his shoulder. "It is meant to be extravagant."

"That does not win war, Théoden." Erkenbrand answered. "Strategy and strength does."


	59. Elrohir

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Elrohir**

"It is a little small..."

"Is it?"

"Yes, if you look around the shoulders. Try a stance as if you are pulling back your bow." Elrohir suggested. Elladan complied. Elrohir was right; the shirt pulled tightly over Elladan's shoulders. "I think the seamstresses will have to alter it."

Elladan inspected himself in the mirror.

"Would you like to try it?"

Elrohir looked at him, exasperated.

"What good will those do? We are twins!"


	60. Annatar

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Annatar**

Even while he served Morgoth, the forge was his place for solitude.

He loved the heat from the fires, the scent of smoke and flames in the air, and the steady rhythmic hammering of numerous smiths at work. He had forgotten; his forge while he served as a Lieutenant did not possess any such attributes.

He had forgotten how it was like, to converse about his craft for hours on end. The Elves awoke a desire in him that fell in slumber during his long years of leadership. For once he was not feared. For once he was not looked upon with revulsion.

"There," someone called out behind him. Annatar tore his eyes away from the forges and left the balcony. Celebrimbor stood by the anvil, holding up a sword in his gloved hands. There was a satisfied smile on his face. "What think you?"

Annatar pulled on his own set of gloves and took the sword from him. He studied it in long silence before he looked up in approval, a small smile on his face.

"Perfect," he answered simply.

He had plans; there was no possible way he could change them. But for now, he wanted that happiness and that feeling of belonging.

If only for a moment.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

A part of me _would_ like to think that somewhere deep down, Annatar received some form of happiness with the Elven smiths.


	61. Arathorn

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Arathorn**

The sound of an infant happily playing broke through the heavy layers of his slumber. He stirred slightly, and wrapped one arm around his wife.

"Your son is awake," he rumbled in her ear. His voice was still rough from his sleep. Gilraen laughed in her pillow.

"He is always my son when he is in need of something, is he not?" She teased him gently. Arathorn gave one humph and pulled her deeper into the covers. Gilraen gave a small shriek of surprise.

"Shush," Arathorn whispered. "Else our son will know we are awake."

"What a pity would that be?"

"Indeed."

Arathorn barely stopped speaking when something small and heavy landed happily on top of them. Arathorn's eyes snapped wide open and instincts took over. Gilraen grabbed his wrist before his hand retrieved the knife under his pillow. She laughed and pulled the small being under the covers. It was none other than his son, barely a year old, grinning toothily at him. Bare feet kicked him playfully on his stomach. Arathorn mockingly scowled at him before grabbing him in his arms.

"I will show you a thing or two," Arathorn said to his son before tickling him. Shrieks of laughter filled the modestly decorated cabin. Gilraen lay back against her pillows and watched father and son play with a wide smile.


	62. Thengel

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Thengel**

Morwen was everything he was not.

She was tall, with a soft, white skin and tumbling black locks that, when left loose, tumbled over the expanse of her back like a waterfall. She was calm, almost ethereal. She did everything with grace; how she tucked her legs under a table, how she set her spoon and fork carefully over the plate, how she knelt and spoke softly in her child's ear. He felt like a stumbling old fool compared to her.

Old, he thought bitterly. He was old, and he was weak. Above all, he was selfish.

His thoughts were interrupted when he felt two slender arms wrap loosely around his neck. A voice spoke softly in his ear.

"My lord husband is rather displeased of late." His wife breathed. A mixture of love and self-hatred arose in him. "Have I done something to offend you, beloved?"

Her embrace was too welcoming and warm. There was no escape from it. Frankly, Thengel did not want to. He leaned back against her without realising it.

"I am afraid you have married a selfish man who only cares about his own desires."

There was a short pause and he sensed her silently working the problem.

"Oh," she said guardedly. "And why is that?"

"I married you for the preservation of my own heart, I think. I was too afraid to be alone. And when I looked upon you that day so many years ago, I wanted you for myself, even though you are far younger. I believe I am selfish, because I loved you too much to let you be free. And now when age will come upon us both, I am afraid I will leave you alone in this world. All because I was selfish!"

There was a long silence. He felt more and more wretched as it lengthened. Then Morwen surprised him with an amused laugh and a kiss on the crown of his head. Morwen walked around and faced him. He was caught again in her graceful beauty, her body changed with child-bearing and garbed in rich blue gown and edged with gems and silver thread.

"I see this is another bout of self-pity," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Once you are done wallowing in it, I would like to invite you to picnic in the garden. It will be just the two of us." Thengel stuttered, surprised she did not create a fuss. Morwen looked even more amused.

"Do you not see, beloved? I am deeply in love with you," she said. "Whether you die before me or I die before you, it does not matter to me as you and you alone are the love of my heart." She laughed. "And here I thought you would have known after bearing you five children."


	63. Morwen

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **five** updates before this.

* * *

 **Morwen**

She rocked the cradle gently to and fro, humming softly under her breath. Théodren's eyes fluttered close. He fought his sleep for nearly an hour, she thought in amusement. But he was nearly lost. His eyes snapped wide open and the infant of barely six months gave a loud, irritated wail.

"Oh, shush, shush," she crooned. She rested her free hand on her son's small chest. "Shush, the son of my beloved. Do not cry." The babe quietened almost instantly. Fire crackled in the hearth, warding off winter cold. She was garbed in russet raiment, shrouded in a wide mantle to keep her warm. Her son was swaddled in blankets. "Your mother is here, my little one."

Théoden's fingers of both hands curled around her long and slender hand. His blue eyes met hers curiously. She smiled tenderly down at her son.

"Someday you will grow big and strong. You will ride out on the green, grassy plains atop your large, wild horse and strike down many a foe. You will protect your people from harm and you will gather them under one flag. I know it in my heart. Valar give me strength. I am to grow a king." She laughed lightly.

"But first, my son, you must sleep."


	64. Borlas II

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **six** updates before this.

* * *

 **Borlas**

Blue eyes met his green ones, mocking and amused.

"Yield to me."

"And allow Rohan take victory over Gondor? Never!"

Elfwine flashed him a disarming smile over the threat of his wooden sword.

"Well, for that I would place Gondor on the gambling table with Eldarion, if he would be so willing." Elfwine glanced past Borlas' shoulder where Eldarion sat. The Gondorian looked bored, but his eyes were alert and following every move both of them made.

"I would take that bet, if Rohan actually had something substantial to offer," Eldarion said loftily.

"Bah! You are just worried that you may lose your father's hard won kingdom in a gamble."

"I should think so! What poet will sing about how Rohan or Gondor was won in something as insane and ridiculous as a betting game?"

Borlas did not let the conversation continue. He swung his blade and would have caught Elfwine across his ribs. But Elfwine intercepted him and blocked his attack with his own sword. They disengaged.

"That was a low move on your part," Elfwine drawled, shaggy black hair bouncing over his shoulders as he gave Borlas a wide berth. Borlas held his ground and turned with his opponent, looking for any sign of incoming attack.

"No rules exist when there is a war," Borlas returned.

"You will be defeated this day, Sea's mistress," Elfwine taunted, using the unsavoury term for a ship's captain.

"In your unlikeliest dreams, mongrel!" Borlas retorted.

Borlas had to admit that the 'mongrel' was much better than he praised him to be. It was true that Elfwine shared a startling resemblance of his maternal grandfather. Borlas personally never believed it but once Elfwine reached his thirties, it was as clear as daylight. Elfwine caught the best from both paternal and maternal lines in both looks and skills. He was built in the lean and lithe figure of a Gondorian, but gifted with both brawn and agility. It made him a deadly opponent.

He also inherited his father's hubris. Unlike Éomer, however, he did not learn to leave it outside the practicing field.

So Borlas' quick eyes noticed how his sword always lowered and left his right side widely open. A quick dip of the practice sword sent the gravel and sand into Elfwine's eyes in the form of the oldest trick known to every swordsman. After that, disarming him was easy. For good measure, Borlas kicked him in the stomach. Elfwine landed on his rump with a loud yelp. Borlas held him in place with his wooden blade resting on his collarbone. Behind Borlas, Eldarion crowed his victory and clapped his hands in delight. Elfwine shook his head and gave Borlas a rueful smile. Borlas took away his sword and offered his free hand to Elfwine.

"You should leave your pride before you cross swords with your opponent," Borlas advised. Elfwine laughed and accepted his hand.

"I should," he agreed. "I do not think it will be wise for someone of my station, even a 'mongrel', be left on my backside."

"Quite," Borlas nodded solemnly. Both of them ignored Eldarion, still cheering Borlas' smart victory behind them.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I am open to any and all suggestions. :)

On my laptop: it still won't work, so I am left typing out my stories on my phone and updating from there. I have no idea when I will be able to send it for repair. Please bear with me.

Do leave a review!


	65. Elboron

**Author's Note:**

My keyboard is _alive_!

* * *

 **Elboron**

Elboron had many admirable traits.

Unfortunately his height was not one of them.

He was shorter than most, nearly by more than a head when he stood shoulder to shoulder with Elfwine. He was the same height as most women. Unfortunately still, he was the son of a man and a woman who were both quite tall. It turned into a running jest amongst the men closest to him. In fact, it was legendary.

"I have seen Dwarves taller than you!" Elfwine taunted, sword at the ready as he stepped across the well-trodden dirt of the practicing ring. Elboron pretended to look enraged. The men around them laughed and eagerly watched the play.

"You shall pay for that insult, goat-lover!" Elboron returned in a loud voice. Eldarion, eager to join in the fun, entered the ring and gestured at Elboron, who quickly understood. The Prince of Gondor lowered himself a fraction and braced his knees and Elboron jumped onto his back and raised his sword. The men burst out laughing. Elboron waved his sword about.

"Onward, steed!"

Elfwine burst out laughing as soon as Eldarion spurred forward but Elboron was quick. He leaped into the air and without losing a moment, Elboron hopped onto Elfwine's back with a guttural war-cry. Elfwine was laughing too hard to resist; and Elboron managed to throw him to the ground.

"Eat dust, you miserable cur!" Elboron shouted playfully, pushing Elfwine's grinning face deeper into the dirt.


	66. Eldarion 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Eldarion**

How does one heal a broken heart?

How does one force himself to love someone, who had given her love so freely?

He did not know, the sight of his young wife's quiet sadness was unbearable. He thought he was only lifting the burden of his heart when he finally confessed his marriage to her was purely for his kingdom's benefits. He thought the feeling was mutual. But the shock and hurt in her eyes told him how wrong he was.

She did not weep and shout at him as most women would have done in her place. Instead, she took his confession with greater dignity than he had in keeping his feelings a secret. There was no accusation in her gaze but he knew she was unhappy.

"I may not love you." Eldarion said. Surprised, she stiffened and looked wary. "But I may come to love you, if you would allow me to court you anew."

She paused in thought and then smiled shyly. It lifted his heart.

There was hope for him yet.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

It is unrealistic to believe that all monarchs married for love. Some may have married for means to an end, however sad that sounds.


	67. Alphros

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Alphros**

It was not a match his father agreed to.

In fact, his father and uncles were vehemently against it. His mother kept her silence, but he knew she disapproved.

He should have listened.

His ears were full of derogatory remarks. Alphros kept his head lowered. He wished to speak up, to voice his objections to his wife's continuous tirades but his tongue seemingly stuck to the roof of his mouth. Instead, he kept his hands on his thighs and held his silence like a good man. Her words fell on his ears but he did not seem to hear them. They were not different from the ones she used before. There was a time where he grieved when she insulted and mocked him. But now he was only numb, as if his wounds were rubbed raw for so long that his nerves decayed into nothing.

He suddenly felt tired, and slowly rose from his chair.

"I shall retire to bed now," Alphros announced softly but firmly. He added, "Alone." With that he turned on his heel and went to his set of rooms that he kept separate from that of his wife.

The next thing he knew was the sharp pain on the back of his head. His head swung on his neck, loosely and he lost his balance. He stumbled into the chair he just left and blindly reached for support. He found it and gripped hard the edge of the table, turning it into his anchor. Pain shot through his head, and his eyes blurred with unshed tears from it. A new headache blossomed and Alphros' battle-honed instincts roared in defiance.

He turned around to face the sneering curl of his wife's lips. Once he considered her beautiful, with a gentle heart and a smart wit. She was all that a man could dream to have in a wife. But that only lasted the first two months of his marriage. The rest of the year and a half was nothing but heartache and lies.

She held a candlestick in her hand, the discarded candles strewn on the floor. Alphros grimly brought himself to his feet and faced her.

She held up the candlestick high above her head to hit him again. Alphros caught her wrist before her hand came down on him. He clutched it tight in warning, but not tight enough to leave marks on her skin or force all feeling from her hand.

"Beware, my lady," he said in deadly quiet. "The next blow will be returned in full."

With that, he released her and turned to leave.

She did not follow.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

We are all fully aware of the domestic abuse that women go through, but very little are aware of the kind some men have to face. Some argue that men cannot be subdued, but with the right cocktail of drugs, weapons, emotional and verbal onslaught, as well as moral and legal bindings, anything is possible.


	68. Elrond 3

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Elrond**

He caught the stolen glances between his foster-son and his daughter. He also caught the small smiles and breathless laughter between the pair whenever they spoke to each other.

They were smitten, a part of him thought humorously. The other part felt wary and secretive.

"I know you do not approve, but there is little that will keep those two apart," his son murmured as he came up behind him unannounced. Elrond glanced over his shoulder. It was Elrohir, the elder of the two brothers.

"I never said I disapprove." Elrond corrected mildly. "I merely said there is little between them that will result in a happy marriage."

Elrohir laughed softly.

"In fewer words, it means that you do not approve." Elrohir finished. "I do not think you have reason to worry. Their love will be more than enough for the short time they have. I know it."

With that, Elrohir departed and left his father to his thoughts.


	69. Elrond 4

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Elrond**

Throwing insults was a good way to distract the enemy.

"Your son befriended a dwarf!" He taunted.

"Your daughter married a mortal," Thranduil retorted.

"Your son stayed in Arda because of his mortal friends!"

"Your sons stayed in Arda solely to get rid of you!"

"Says the King who always claimed he would never leave Arda to join his brethren across the Sea!"

"Says the buffoon who was reluctant to come to Aman because he would have to meet his parents!"

"Your swings are as weak as that of a new born babe!"

Celebrían sighed as she sat beside Oropher. Thranduil's father seemed just as weary as she was.

"How long have they been like this?" Celebrían asked. She set a glass of cool cider before Oropher. The Elf smiled in gratitude before turning his attention to the two squabbling Elves. Their insults were much louder than the clang of their swords.

"Since morning," Oropher answered dryly. He sipped from his glass.

"I do not understand why they are like this," Celebrían remarked, cradling her own glass in her hand. Oropher shrugged.

"Life in Aman is dreary for them."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Seriously? Going to peaceful land with nothing to do until forever must have been _maddening_ for two Elves who always had Orcs and other nasties pawing their borders!


	70. Theoden 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **five** updates before this.

* * *

 **Théoden**

"Him?" Théoden remarked in disbelief. "You are marrying him?"

His sister looked up at him. He admitted that any man with good sense would find her beautiful, with her slim figure and large eyes framed with thick lashes. But not all men with good sense possessed a good heart.

"Aye. Do not say that you do not approve."

He did not. In fact, he was wholly against it.

Éomund loitered beneath them, surrounded by his comrades and seemingly unaware of the two royals who watched them from their platform. He was large, with the girth and height of an intimidating man. His dark eyes were brooding and his mouth was set in harshness.

"I do not approve." Théoden said flatly. Théodwyn was not upset. She only looked at him speculatively.

"On what grounds?" She asked. "He has done well in your service. He is loyal to you and this land. He looks after his comrades and is generous to the elderly, orphans and poor. What is it that you do not like about him?"

Too hard. He was too hard.

Théoden heard everything there was to know about Éomund. The man was simple and very easily understood. He was gruff, and his manners were berserk. His speech was blunt and all too often his tongue possessed a sharp cutting edge. He did not show love, or affection. In fact, Théoden supposed both feelings were beyond him. His sister, on the other hand, was soft and mild-mannered. She was too gentle for this world. And when she loved, she loved with all her heart. Éomund was kind of the man who would crush her entirely.

Éomund glanced up. His eyes met Théoden's and he and inclined his head. Théoden nodded in return. Éomund's eyes softened as soon as he looked at Théodwyn, even if his expression remained the same. That filled Théoden with doubt.

"I'll consider it." He said grudgingly and surprised himself when Théodwyn pulled him down and dropped a kiss on the crown of his head.

"Thank you, brother mine." She said lovingly before descending the stairs and joining the merrymaking in the Hall.

"I'll regret this," he muttered as he rubbed the place where she kissed and tried his best to look as intimidating as possible for his comrades.


	71. Elrond 5

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **six** updates before this.

* * *

 **Elrond**

He leaned back in his chair, his daughter playing happily on his chair. Arwen had invented a game, where she wove her blue ribbon through the fingers of his both hands and drew them shut. The child then erupted into giggles and pulled free her ribbon. Then she began again.

He marvelled the use of his hands, and counted them a blessing. He used them for menial tasks, like carrying scrolls in his library or washing his own dishes when he was on a journey. And then he used them for warfare, or for treating the sick and injured. His hands told them a story of their own. They were slim and long, elegant as a healer's are. But his knuckles were hard and callused from his years wielding both sword and spear.

To his child, however, his hands were merely an instrument for her play.

Arwen shrieked in surprised delight as Elrond pulled his hands free from her ribbon. He enveloped his child in his arms, one hand supporting her legs and the other tickling her. Arwen was helpless with her laughter.

"Come, little one," Elrond said after bestowing a kiss on the top of her head. "Let us see what mother is up to."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I am open for suggestions.

*wears a motorbike helmet reinforced with mithril and brandishes a fishing net*

Lay it on me!


	72. Elfhelm

**Author's Note:**

I be on fire. :3

* * *

 **Elfhelm**

He met frighteningly familiar eyes reinforced with steel. The rest of the face was obscured by a helm.

But those eyes did not belong to any men.

"Béma, preserve us." Elfhelm uttered the prayer. He gripped the arm of the disguised soldier in a grip of iron, as if 'he' were an apparition that would disappear if he blinked. "Have you sunk in madness? Did Gríma whisper in your ear too, as he did with your uncle?"

The eyes that met his did not waver. He cursed her then, when he realised she was the image of kings born in the form of a woman.

"My reasons are entirely my own." She answered quietly, her voice as dark and sharp as a man's. "Do not question the soundness of my mind solely because I am a woman."

Elfhelm released her with a hiss through his clenched teeth. Éowyn remained where she was, poised as if she were a cat in danger.

"What now?" Éowyn asked. "Will you unmask me in front of my brother and my uncle?"

"Why?" Elfhelm asked in return. "It is madness that we have set for. There were better things for you. Why did you follow?"

"What did you expect of me?" She challenged. "If victory was to be had, would I wait until all men returned from battle to warm beds and food? Would I fade into nothing while the men are celebrated in songs? And what if the Enemy defeated you? Should I have waited for the Enemy to arrive and burn my hall upon me? I would rather I died on the battlefield!" Elfhelm sighed and looked away. The steel in her eyes was too strong.

"That, I understand," Elfhelm muttered. "But heed me. Songs and praises do not exist on the battlefield. There is only fear, ruin and death. And if you perish and your brother survives, then your death will be his undoing. I know how much he loves you. So pray for victory or none at all."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Thanks to Certh for such a different suggestion. Do not hesitate to drop a few!


	73. Thranduil VII

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

"What comes first; a bird or an egg?" His wife asked.

"The bird, of course." Thranduil asked.

"But where did the bird come from?"

"It was created." Thranduil answered, his voice confident.

"But an egg is also a creation." The Queen protested. She sat on a chair by the fire, her hair free from her crown and braids. She was dressed in a luxurious dressing gown that encased her small frame.

Thranduil lay on his stomach before the fire, his legs hoisted in the air and crossed at the ankles. He braced himself on his forearms. His damp hair still gleamed after the bath.

"The egg is formed by the union of a bird and its mate." Thranduil answered. "You need two birds for an egg." Then he hid his smile before deciding to tease his wife. "Yield. I have won, as I always do."

The Queen arched a single brow.

"What comes first?" She asked, "The King or his hubris?"

Thranduil burst out laughing.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Another suggestion was to do an interaction between Thranduil and Legolas.

But Legolas is currently sulking in the dungeon somewhere.

So I hope husband/wife time will suffice?


	74. Witch-king

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Witch-King**

I loved a woman once, as tall and bold as you.

She wore her long fair hair in a single braid. She rode her horses without a saddle. Her smiles were carefree and I often lingered to catch a glimpse of her.

It was possible that she loved me as well, but she abhorred the ring upon my finger. She called it a petty ring with meagre fortune, and that it was bought with a price too high.

I should have listened to her.

Instead, I was caged in the very image of the body I once commanded. My actions were not of my own, nor were my words. In time, I grew so mutilated that there was no difference between my decisions and that of the Dark Lord.

But then I met you. And by your hand, I fell. The prophecy has come true.

And as I leave this body the Dark Lord created, I sing with both relief and joy.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I am not sure if you will like this, but *shields Witch-king* do not make fun of this guy.

I would like to believe he retained some of his humanity after he was defeated.


	75. Imrahil 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Imrahil**

He heard loud shrieks of delighted laughter. Then he heard a terrified scream of his wife. Imrahil immediately opened his eyes and sat up, one hand reaching for his sword.

"Amrothos, let it go this moment!"

His wife stood in the water, the hem of her skirts tucked into the belt around her waist. Elphir and Erchirion were happily swimming far into the Sea. Lothíriel slumbered beside him.

Amrothos was the only one accompanying his mother. The young boy held a large orange creature in his arms. Its numerous tentacles dangled helplessly, nearly reaching the sand. Imrahil knew what it was; a squid.

"Mother, can I keep it?" Amrothos asked eagerly.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Every mother fears the day when her child will drag some poor, wretched animal through the door...


	76. Galadriel 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Galadriel**

Thranduil stood nearby, anxiety forcing his fingers to twitch.

"Do not weep," Thranduil implored. He reached up with a hand and wiped her tears from her cheeks. "Your daughter is safe now. She will find peace in Aman, I am sure."

Galadriel leaned her face against Thranduil's hand that cradled her cheek. The comfort did little to soothe her, but at least it provided some relief. Celeborn was also inconsolable, but at least he functioned better than she did. Galadriel barely found the strength to leave her bed.

And it was in this moment that she found Thranduil with an admirable quality. He possessed formidable strength, and he was loyal and firm like a mountain with roots deep into the ground; unshakeable and dependable. He provided her with endless patience and reassurances. Thranduil was the only who persuaded her to eat something from the food tray, or sit on the terrace when the weather was good.

"I should have sent more guards," Galadriel whispered. "I should have begged her to stay."

"Enough of this," Thranduil said firmly with a hint of steel. "We have spoken about this. It was not your fault. Foresight has its purposes, but you know better than I that it shows all roads that lead to different destinations. You could not have known."

His words were old; he spoke them so often that they echoed in her mind even when she was alone.

She did not answer him, and Thranduil did not press her. Instead they sat in silence until the evening arrived and the shadows grew long. It was blissful. Galadriel's mind always found solace in such quiet.

"You need to learn to smile again," Thranduil said quietly. The silence fractured and Galadriel was forced to return to reality. Bitterness welled in her heart. "Or for your daughter's sake, if not for your own. It will not do any of you good if you Fade in despair. This will only hinder your reunion with her."

"What is there in this life that will make me smile?" She asked softy. Thranduil leaned forward to catch her words. He stilled when he heard them. "I have lost all my joy when Celebrían suffered. What right do I have to smile?"

"A right of survival," Thranduil answered just as softly, "as all parents must, when they watch their children confront their heartaches. Your body has a right on you. Your life has a right on you. Your husband, your people, and your grandchildren all have right on you." Galadriel could not think of answer, so she did not say anything. Thranduil watched her until he sighed and excused himself.

When it was time to retire for the night, Thranduil surprised her by coming. He wordlessly sat a shallow bowl of milk on her dressing table.

"What is the meaning of this?" She asked, puzzled.

Thranduil did not have the time to answer. Instead, a small furry face peeked through the folds of his cloak.

She burst out laughing.

"Thranduil, there are kittens in your clothes!" She gasped.

She was right.

Thranduil grinned ruefully, as small furry heads appeared from everywhere; the hood of his cloak, his tunic, the pouch of his belt, his collar. Soon, the room was filled with loud, shrill mewling. She approached him, one hand reaching up and pressing lightly against his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered. Thranduil only smiled.


	77. Glorfindel 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **five** updates before this.

* * *

 **Glorfindel**

The woody, dusty scent of books lingered in the air. Glorfindel looked around him in wonder. Shelves stood against all walls, as tall as statues until they reached the ceiling. The lights were inadequate, but more lanterns can be commissioned.

The floor was set with alternating tiles of blue and white. Scrolls balanced precariously on stacks of books. Ancient tomes sat alone in their cases in front of windows. An old tapestry of a soldier in ancient armour swayed gently from a draft. Every shelf was full to the brim, with small pieces of parchment and scrolls pressed into every conceivable crevice. All he saw were books, scrolls and unbound parchment.

He dimly heard Elladan speak in the background.

"... Of course, the library has seen some decay. The Stewards did not give this place much thought. It is a scandal to let the library see so much ruin. I am sure Erestor will be able to restore the older works. Is that right, Erestor?"

He heard no reply.

"Erestor? Erestor!"

Glorfindel found Elrohir, Elladan and Aragorn on the terrace, which overlooked the massive library. A map was etched into the floor of the library at its very heart. Erestor sat at the borders of Gondor, a scroll in hand.

"Hush," the Elf cautioned. "Erestor is in love."

Aragorn, Elladan and Elrohir stifled their laughter.


	78. Aragorn 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **six** updates before this.

* * *

 **Aragorn**

The streets were littered with fallen petals. More fell from the sunlit sky. Aragorn sat on his horse in his full armour. His crown, hair and armour gleamed in sunlight. Behind him, Aragorn's guards formed neat and tidy lines. Their passage through the town spared nothing.

"Heed well, King of Gondor! Not even the Kings of old were as frivolous as you are!" A voice shouted from the crowd.

Aragorn instinctively drew in his horse and searched the masses for the speaker.

The guards responded immediately. They halted and two of them dismounted. They shouldered their way through the crowd and found the woman who spoke just as Aragorn's eyes fell on her. She was a short, stout woman, heavy from bearing children. Her reddened face was turned up in defiance. The stance was courageous and Aragorn admired her boldness.

He stirred when he saw one of the men reach out for her.

"Let her go!" He immediately ordered, his voice cutting the air like a whip. The guard dropped his arm as if the woman burned him. Silence fell and Aragorn felt numerous eyes burn holes into his armour. Such was their attention.

"The lady spoke truly." Aragorn said quietly. "And we who wear crowns, holding power in one hand and wealth in the other tend to forget that we are no different. All men must die, after all."

Soft murmurs broke through the people and Aragorn felt emotions rise from them; surprise, amusement, incredulity and admiration.

When he turned his attention to the woman again, he saw that she was smiling. She bobbed her head in acknowledgment.

And that meant more to Aragorn than any meeting with his subjects.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Based on a true story.

An Arabian Caliph was worried that the dowry was going too high. Dowry does not hold the same meaning among Arabs as it does everywhere else. Dowry is a gift that is given from the husband to the bride. It should be according to the bride's satisfaction and neither his nor her family has any say in her money. She may invest it, give it to charity, keep it or do anything she wishes. So the Caliph called a public meeting and made a law that the dowry may only reach a certain amount and no more.

A woman from the crowd spoke up and openly challenged him, quoting the verses from their book. She told him he had no right, and what he was doing was an oppression. The Caliph fell silent, thought about it, and agreed. Later, he also mentioned that such courageous people were necessary in a nation, to make sure their rulers did not go astray (meaning corrupt, or tyrannical).


	79. Eomer 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **seven** updates before this.

* * *

 **Éomer**

His sister's hair was artfully decorated with flowers and ribbons. Golden hair gleamed between the spaces. She twirled and spun like the rest of the young women who commanded the floor. She was stunning, with her graceful moves that were only refined by her love for swordplay.

Éomer watched her from the shadow of a pillar, smiling at her joy. The festivals were her escape, the only time when she let loose her inhibitions. She wore the best dress, jewellery and danced until her cheeks were flushed.

He sensed someone come beside him.

"She is happy." Théodred murmured. Éomer agreed with a single nod. "Then let us join her."

Éomer threw a glance at Théodred. His cousin's face was carefully neutral but there was a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Éomer grinned.

The pair quickly tugged off their boots and joined the fray. Numerous men laughed and cheered. Many of their comrades entered the floor, kicking up dust by their bare feet. The music grew faster and the women laughed.

Among them, Éowyn's laughter was the loudest.


	80. Thranduil VIII

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **eight** updates before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

Never in his life did Thranduil hear such silence in his Halls.

His Halls saw many things over the years, but this silence was fitted only for tombs of people long forgotten to the world. His subjects lingered over the bridges and on every place that warranted a good view. They stood still, as if any movement would disperse the sober air.

A young child hesitantly walked to the stretcher that lay by the entrance of the Halls. One of the guards knelt and gently pulled away the shroud just enough to reveal her father's face.

The way the girl's expression changed nearly killed Thranduil's heart. Her breath hitched and her hands flew to her face. First she looked down at her father, then at the guard and back at her father again.

When she spoke, Thranduil felt as if his heart was pierced and left bleeding. The child's voice was raw and broken. She lost everyone; her mother died in childbirth, and there were no close relations. Her father was a soldier, who was her entire life. But he died in service to the crown.

She sat down beside the body, one small hand patting her father's forehead. The other hand remained pressed against her mouth. Her tears shone in her eyes and Thranduil saw them even though he stood far away. She muttered something unintelligible as she lovingly pushed stray hair away from her father's face. Thranduil guessed she was trying to speak to him. He was right; as soon as she realised her father did not answer, she burst into tears.

Her quiet sobbing filtered through the silence. One by one, Elves hung their heads as if her sorrow was unbearable.

Unable to help himself, Thranduil finally stepped forward. He reached the girl in swift strides. When he came close, he stooped down and picked the child into his arms. He held her close to his chest, tugging his large cloak over her and shielding her from the view of everyone.

And inwardly he prayed it was enough to keep the demons of her grief and loneliness at bay.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

To the children of the world, forgotten in war. I wish there was a way to wipe your tears.


	81. Ivriniel 1

**Ivriniel**

Ivriniel worked as diligently as the midwife. She changed sheets, wiped the sweat off her sister's brow, held her hand, gave her water to drink, offered words of comfort and cleaned her when she gave birth.

Finduilas feebly protested, feeling conscious, but Ivriniel waved away her concerns.

"Scream and curse all you like, before, during and after birth," Ivriniel said wryly. "There are only women here, and none of us expect you to be courageous."

Once the babe was born, he needed to be washed. Ivriniel did that as well. She cut the cord joining him to his mother and washed him in warm water before drying and swaddling him. Then she presented the babe to his sister.

"Here we are," she said briskly, setting the babe on her bosom. "If your fortune holds, the child will be robust with some of Denethor's traits. But I hope he is not too serious."

"Ivriniel," Finduilas chided gently, knowing full well her sister did not like Denethor much. Ivriniel did not answer.

Later, when the child was shown to his father and the other nobles gathered at court, Ivriniel busied herself with cleaning what belongings she found out of their place. Denethor came to find her,and watched her silently as she worked.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For all that you have done to make my wife comfortable."

Ivriniel paused just as she placed folded clothes into a drawer. Denethor showed gratitude rarely. It was yet another sign that he cared more for his wife than most believed him capable of caring.

"She is my sister." Ivriniel said as she set the clothes into the drawer. "I would do anything for her. That is what siblings are for."

There was a ghost of a smile on Denethor's lips.

"Siblings?" He echoed thoughtfully. Then he shook his head. "I wouldn't know. But thank you, just the same."


	82. Man 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Man**

The sun was blisteringly hot. He felt sweat trickle an uncomfortable path from the back of his neck all the way down his back. He longed to shed his robes, but he knew the sun would burn his skin if he did.

The desert was calm, at least for now. There was no wind and he thanked the gods that there was no sandstorm.

"It is too hot," he finally complained, tugging at his collar. His steed hung his head low, tired just like his master.

His companion hummed in agreement. His face was striking even if it was covered with dust. His skin was fair, with a prominent jawline and angled cheekbones. His eyes were bright and piercing. His black hair was hidden in his turban.

"They say that long ago this desert was a green land," his companion answered. His voice was deep and cultured.

He glanced around him sceptically. There was not a green patch in sight.

"It is hard to believe," he said at last. His companion laughed.

"It is true," he insisted. "A Race lived among the forests that once covered this land. They were similar to us men. But it is said they had long lives and did not die except from wounds or grief. They were beautiful beyond reckoning, and their wisdom was deep."

The man snorted.

"I never believed you were the kind to listen to fairy tales and drunken men's imaginative stories," he remarked. "You always preferred reason over speculation." His companion's lips deepened into a smile.

"You are right." His companion said ruefully with a nod. "I do not know what came over me. But I do believe that the land remembers those that pass through it. And I sense something in the air. This land mourns for the people that once lived here. I am certain of it."

He glanced around uneasily. Such talk always made him nervous.

"Come on, then." He said, his discomfort causing his horse to become skittish. "Let us go, then. I do not wish to stay unnecessarily long in a haunted place."

With that he spurred his horse into action. The wind picked up, and he thought he heard a soft male voice singing in a foreign language. He strained to hear more, but it was gone.


	83. Archeologist

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Archeologist**

Mountains always fascinated her from a young age. She always wondered about what lived deep in the belly of stone. Sometimes she found skeletons belonging to strange creatures. Other times, she found forbidding caves full of crude drawings of a strange language, accompanied with pictures of gruesome death and torture. And other times, she discovered true treasures.

She stood in what appeared to be a large hall entirely carved from stone. She was deep in the mountain. Silver veins crept along the walls and joined together in an elaborate web on the ceiling. The ceiling was supported by numerous pillars on either side. The carvings in the pillars were inlaid with gold. The structure must be thousands of years old, but it was built to last.

The hall opened into numerous other rooms. The doorways were empty and it was possible the doors were wooden that rotted away long ago. She heard members of her team working their way through the labyrinth of rooms.

"This must have been a city." She murmured. She encountered few skeletons on the way. She deduced from them that the people that lived here was small and stout, with clever fingers to work such masterpieces.

The archeologist held up the torch, watching the way the light reflect on gold and silver inlays. She made her way to a ruined archway and her breath caught. It led to a ruined staircase high above a pit. The staircase was broken in the middle, and there were no barriers on either side.

She took a single cautious step forward. Her foot struck something. It skittered away on the floor. She reached the object and knelt. It was an axe, rusted from disuse but the runes on it were still visible.

"Fascinating," she murmured.

She was so engrossed in what she found that she missed the flurry of movement of fire and shadow deep within the pit.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

This is Moria. Based on Gandalf's remark that older and fouler things dwell deep in the earth.


	84. Denethor 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Denethor**

All his life, he took great pride in how well he kept his expressions under his control. He remained impassive if insults were thrown at him, did not smile when he was praised and did not flush in anger if he was outmanoeuvred by a witty opponent.

It was a skill, even if his father barely understood him for it. Ecthelion was a warmer being, who believed compassion and laughter were the keys for making good and strong alliances.

Then he met Finduilas. He was caught unawares. Sometimes he found himself staring. Other times he found he was robbed both of speech and thought in her presence.

And when there was an attempt at her life to gain the attention of the Steward, Denethor never knew such strong, crippling fear.

It was then he realised, he loved her.


	85. Thranduil 9

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

"Where do children come from?" Legolas asked his wife.

Thranduil leaned his head further over his book in a miserable attempt to read. He heard his wife answer.

"From the healing ward, my dear."

"I checked. There were no babies there."

Thranduil bit the tip of his tongue in an effort to keep his silence.

"Ask your father, then."

Thranduil choked on air and looked up. Legolas already scrambled off his mother's lap and ran to him. Thranduil sighs in defeat and leaned back so that Legolas could sit on his lap. He was still so young, young enough to be lifted and carried on someone's shoulders. How was he so curious?

"Where do children come from?" Legolas demanded.

"We ask for a child and we are given one." Thranduil answered, stroking his son's head. Legolas' eyes brightened.

"Anyone can ask for one?"

"Nay," Thranduil answered after pause. He firmly buried his amusement. "Only a married couple can ask for a child." Legolas frowned in thought.

"Can you ask then?" Legolas demanded. Thranduil took care not to look at his spouse. If he did, he knew he would succumb to his mirth.

"I can." Thranduil answered with a solemn nod.

"I would like to have a sister or a brother."

Thranduil's lips twitched treacherously.

"I will try." Thranduil answered. Satisfied, Legolas scrambled off his lap and left to play.

Thranduil returned to his hook but his attention was elsewhere. He stole a furtive glance at his wife. She spent better part of Legolas' youth reading him and teaching him. Legolas was not an easy child. He was wilful and curious. He meddled in affairs, in spite of his good heart. He watched her more openly. It was clear that she was ignoring him.

"Wife-" Thranduil began.

"Absolutely not," his queen answered him in clipped tone. Thranduil ducked his head to hide his laughter.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

My personal belief is that Elves can control their conceptions, so to answer y'all who are silently interested, he is still getting somethin' somethin'. :P


	86. Eomund

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **five** updates before this.

* * *

 **Éomund**

A shape passed over him, breaking the sunbeams of rising dawn.

"Water," he croaked, his voice dull even to his ears. He raised a gloved hand to the shape, trembling violently. Perhaps the shape belonged to a tall and forbidding enemy. He did not know, and he did not care. His sword was broken, and his wounds were mortal. "Please..."

He never begged. Béma knew that the sons of Riddermark were proud. But his throat was so dry...

The shape knelt before him and pressed something against his chapped lips. Water trickled down his throat. He nearly wept in relief.

"Thank you, stranger..."

The shape grew nearer and he made out fine features; the fair hair and beard, the sharp eyes, the grim setting of the mouth. He knew who it was.

"Éomer, my prince..."

"King," Éomer corrected gravely. It was then Éomund realised his face was not set in gravity but in grief. "And the last of my house, it seems, for both my uncle and sister have perished."

Water seeped into his mouth, and he swallowed. He wished the water was cold, but it was warm and tasted slightly of leather. The first few gulps washed down dirt and blood. The next few were much cleaner. He felt marginally better, and struggled to rise. Éomer pressed him down with a hand on the middle of his chest.

"Stay," Éomer commanded sharply. "You are in no condition."

A hysterical laugh bubbled in his throat. He was not in any condition, especially to live. His vision already begun to darken.

"A new Age..." Éomund breathed. "I will not live to see it." His chest strained and heaved to force the words from his lips. His breath came in shuddering gasps.

"Aye..."

"Forgive... My doubts."

"Forgiven," Éomer answered immediately. "I will not hold you at fault for few words, for I did not believe many things not so long ago."

His vision dimmed. Éomund managed a smile, but he did not speak.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Yep. I called him. He, who, only had a single line in the entire three books plus Tolkien's Legendarium.

Yep.

*runs before Rohan lovers catch up to her*


	87. Aragorn 3

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **six** updates before this.

* * *

 **Aragorn**

The sight of blood on his hands was forever imprinted on his mind.

Blood never troubled him before. He spent long hours in the infirmary, suturing wounds and changing dressings. But blood like this was spilt by his own hand, with the intent to kill rather than heal.

And so, as he scrubbed his hands until the skin turned pink and raw, he felt as if he missed a clot under his fingernails or a speck of blood in the folds of his skin.

He pulled his hands from the basin of water, dripping wet and brought them close to his face. He could still smell the tangy scent of blood even after he washed his hands in scented water. He could still hear the arrow flying from his bow, its head passing through bone and muscle until it embedded into his enemy's brain.

Bile rose in his throat once more, bitter against the back of his throat and he immediately swallowed it down.

A knock startled him out of his thoughts. He dropped his hands in the clean, if soapy, water. The gentle rap on his door sounded again. He dried his hands on a thick towel and went to open the door.

Elrond stood in the hallway with a grave expression. Aragorn looked down at his father's feet, unable to show him his vulnerability.

"You will never forget," Elrond said quietly. His feet shifted until Aragorn assumed by his stance that Elrond now leaned against the door frame. "But it will get easier. There is only one lesson to derive from it." Aragorn stole a glance at Elrond. His father was solemn, but his eyes were understanding. "Never forget your heart, Estel. Do not let it harden. If it does, you will lose yourself, and all will be lost."

Aragorn swallowed and nodded wordlessly.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Saving a life is one thing. Taking it is completely another. As someone who is linked to preserving life, the thought of taking one, even under self-defense leaves a bitter taste in one's mouth.


	88. Ecthelion

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **seven** updates before this.

* * *

 **Ecthelion**

Ecthelion sat across his son, uncertain what to do. Many noblemen never cared much for children, except using their wealth and power to grant them the best of everything. He shared their same instinct, that children were better off with women than with men, until they grew into men themselves.

But his son was too solemn. Denethor was thoughtful and quiet, spending more time watching and silently learning rather than playing in the gardens like children should.

Denethor sat in front of him, studying him with a grave expression that rivalled his own. It was strange to see such a look on a child barely of seven summers. Ecthelion would have any emotion other than impassivity. Anything.

"I do not suppose you are ticklish." Ecthelion said suddenly.

Denethor's face changed to wariness.

"I shall take that as a yes." Ecthelion answered himself and lunged. Denethor gave a loud screech and scrambled off the seat but did not reach the door before he was swept into his father's strong arms.

Peals of laughter rang out as Ecthelion found his son's sensitive spots and his wife entered to see him and their son playing on the floor of his study.


	89. Elladan

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **eight** updates before this.

* * *

 **Elladan**

When he was a child, he always leaped on to his mother's back for rides. Celebrían never stopped him. Instead, she always tucked her hands underneath his knees and allowed him to fold his hands over her neck.

His last ride on her back was one he did not want. Celebrían noticed a long time passed and she offered.

"I am too big," Elladan said miserably. "I am too heavy."

Celebrían tenderly brushed back his hair from his forehead and tilted up his chin so that their eyes met.

"One more time," she insisted. "My son has not grown up yet."

Then years passed. They both changed, especially after he and his brother rescued her from captivity. Elladan helped his mother wear a cloak to shield her fragile and injured body from the cold outside. He then carefully lifted her in his arms.

"I hope," Celebrían breathed softly, her voice thin and delicate. "I hope I am not too heavy, my son." They came outside, the scent of fresh earth hanging in the air after a long rainfall.

Elladan pressed his lips together and struggled to keep his emotions at bay. He dropped a kiss on her head.

"You are never too heavy for me, mother."


	90. Sailor

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **nine** updates before this.

* * *

 **Sailor**

He eyed the ship before him critically. The mast was strong, and the sails were practical. The ship was well-designed, more for speed than anything else. By all accounts, it truly was a ship that only sailed for exploration.

He hoisted the satchel of his belongings higher on his shoulder and boarded the ship.

The bustling activity on the ship was quick, but organised. No man loitered about. All of them moved with purpose.

"Look alive!" One of them quipped as he passed him by. "The Captain hates lazy folk!"

He did not answer.

Another man approached him. He was built like a barrel with legs and arms. His black hair was streaked with grey, and his muscles bunched underneath the skin of his forearms. He wore a sleeveless shirt and trousers, with sailing boots. He introduced himself as second in command.

"I was told a new pair of hands was needed," he explained to the older man, who nodded gruffly.

"Show yourself to the Captain first. Then make yourself comfortable."

"And where is the Captain?"

"Behind you."

He turned and met an appalling sight.

A woman stood before him, dressed in loose shirt and fitted trousers. Her boots were simple and practical, and there was little embroidery done on her clothes. Her hair was thick and heavy, and the woman tamed it by wrapping her head with a long blue scarf and braiding her hair along with the cloth. She wore noticeably big gold hoops in her ears. Her stance was easy, but alert.

And there was no doubt on his mind that this was the Captain.

"Uh-" he uttered, confounded. The Captain caught sight of him and approached him.

"Captain Ivriniel, daughter of Adrahil and Princess of Dol Amroth," she introduced briskly. She did not notice his inability to speak. "When you are on my ship, you will do what I say, how I say and when I say. Our task is to explore enemy waters and on occasion, we will engage in a skirmish. On this ship, your loyalty will be to me." Dark eyes met his in an open challenge. "Insubordination will be punished. Am I understood?"

The sailor closed his mouth with an audible click and only replied with a nod.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Can this be a thing? Strong-willed firstborn of Prince Adrahil?

Anyone who wants to pursue this, **PLEASE** let me know. Give me credit in your story and do let me know so that I can read. :D


	91. Tree

**Tree**

It first woke to the song of a nurturing voice. It felt a being nearby, soft and gentle with a melodious song as she traced its bark with her fingers. It leaned towards her gratefully and she laughed.

"Gently," Kementári had murmured. "Your wood would only bend so far."

And she was right. After all, it was only an oak tree.

Then it grew and it saw many things in its life. First it knew only joy and it waited eagerly for every time the sun rose. It bathed in the sun's warm golden light and at night it provided shelter for all the little creatures of the forest.

Then strange beings came. They were Elves, it heard. They were tall and beautiful, with bright eyes and beautiful songs. It found that they heard it and they spoke to it. And it answered. It sheltered them on rainy or sunny days whenever they passed by it.

Then the Men came and they took what they could from its forest without asking. But it bore with their rudeness patiently. The Elves passed beneath it during many long years but their numbers dwindled until at last they came no more.

Only the Men remained and it watched their cruelty and malice with growing horror. Crimes were committed under its branches and it could not do much to help for it was now old and weary. A woman was forced and left beneath its branches, weeping. Sometime later a man dropped a wailing baby near its roots where it perished and animals dragged the body away. But the most horrendous act came much later, when men with swords and bows dragged other men to its trunk and tied vines around their necks and hoisted them up on its branches. The tree protested then. It bent and shook, but the men dangled in the air. The other men left the tree with its predicament.

And so the oak tree stood alone, with numerous corpses hanging from its branches like jewels on a necklace.


	92. Faramir 4

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Faramir**

Death was his constant companion now. It followed his footsteps, heralded his arrival. Faramir smiled bitterly. Everything he once knew was now lost. His brother was dead and so it seemed, his father. None would tell him how his father met his demise. He looked once in their faces and knew it was not an honourable death.

"Your father loved you dearly," they all said to him gently.

Love? Faramir scoffed, allowing the dark thoughts churn his head and mind for once without pushing back with hopeful ones. What did he know of love? How could love take any part in a world full of death and chaos? He shook his head, ignoring the warm sunlight raining on his back and neck. His father was many things, but what did he know of love?

He was still nursing his thoughts like a beast licking its wounds with its tongue when he heard a soft voice of a woman speak, "Lord Faramir?"

He turned, and before him stood a young woman with the hair as bright as gold.

And then his dark thoughts fled.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

I try to keep notes sparse on this story. But please leave a review when able. :)


	93. Galadriel 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Galadriel**

She loved the night. It was quiet and peaceful, with a clear view of the moon and stars above her. The wind rustled through the trees and played with the curtains of her window. She shivered a little in her nightgown but refused to wear something warm on top of it. She loved the cold too. This was her favourite time, when she had all the time to herself.

A tiny wail broke through her peaceful reverie.

Galadriel sighed and turned to look back into the room. Celeborn slept deeply, not even stirring when their daughter's cries grew louder. Galadriel went to the cradle and peered inside. Celebrían was in an angry fit, kicking the blankets with small feet and turning her face red with screaming. Galadriel laughed softly and picked her.

"Shush, my dear silver," Galadriel crooned, rocking her gently. She ran a single finger along her daughter's cheek and smiled tenderly. "It would seem that I am to share my precious time with my precious daughter."


	94. Imrahil 3

**Imrahil**

It was often said that the man and his wife completed each other. Some were like fire and water and others were like two fish swimming in the calm sea.

Denethor and Finduilas were as different as night and day. Denethor was solemn, calm and reserved. Finduilas was happy, joyous and outspoken. Yet they rarely fought and more often than not, Denethor bent to his wife's wishes.

"She gentled him," Ecthelion said more than once while he looked on his son and wife with pride.

When Finduilas passed away, Denethor encased himself within his study, refusing to speak to anyone. He only emerged when it was time for the funeral. When Imrahil met his eyes, he nearly recoiled.

Where he once saw warmth like the embers of a slow burning fire, there was now a fortress made from solid ice.


	95. Elladan 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Elladan**

Arwen was always so strong.

He never remembered her every crying, not even after mother came from her imprisonment. She changed her mother's clothes and sheets, coaxed her to eat, sat vigil with father and tended to her brothers. Elladan remembered she was always doing something to keep herself busy. They never had any need or want in her company.

But then one day they came to Imladris far too late that many feared the worst. It was then Arwen broke her composure.

"What will your lust for blood and death will accomplish?" She cried, slamming her hand on Elrohir's chest, startling him. Elladan too was stunned. Arwen never wept. She was as strong as the very bones of the mountain. And yet tears shone in her eyes. She turned her attention to Elladan. "Have you ever thought of those who wait for you?" She asked him. She threw the roll of bandages to the table and Elladan guiltily wore his shirt, hiding the bandage wrapped about his chest. If Arwen was ever upset by their wounds before, she never showed it.

Elrohir reacted first. He grabbed Arwen's wrist just as she reached for the door.

"Hush, little sister." He murmured and pulled her in a tight embrace. Arwen's shoulders shook. Elladan placed a calming hand on them.

"We are sorry." Elladan said softly. "We will be careful next time."

Neither of them promised to stop.


	96. Eowyn 3

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Éowyn**

They met again in the armoury, where Éowyn presented him with her sword. She watched him carefully. Glorfindel held her sword in wonder. Then he wielded it into powerful, practiced strokes before returning it to the table between them.

"It was a worthy blade." Glorfindel said. "Will you not have it repaired?"

"My time as a shieldmaiden has ended." She touched her shield-arm. Glorfindel's eyes lowered to it.

"May I?"

Puzzled, she complied. The Elf Lord touched her arm gently, and she felt warmth soak into her limb. Her ache ebbed away under his touch. Then he shook his head.

"It is ill-mended." Glorfindel said. "There will come days when your arm will ache, and there is nothing that can be done for it. Such is the outcome of war. It is not all for the sake of glory."

"Ironic, since it was glory and death that I sought in battle."

"Well, I am glad you received the former and not the latter."


	97. Eowyn 4

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Éowyn**

The horses they had captured from Mordor were beautiful black horses with flowing manes. They were wild-spirited and even the Elves had trouble calming them. She watched the Elves herd the horses together. They had experience in dealing with horses, and sprang away when a horse charged at them, but roughly kept their circle around the horses.

One broke apart and fled from between the Elves. A fair-haired Elf ran after it, keeping up long enough to grab its mane. He mounted quickly, matching the horse's stride easily. The horse stopped a short distance away from where she stood and reared but the Elf kept his seat. Finally it stopped and pawed the ground. Its nostrils flared from the exertion. The Elf dismounted and stroked its neck, murmuring softly.

"Can they be tamed?" Éowyn said. The Elf turned his attention to her. He was powerfully built in the lines of a warrior, but his face held a mixture of joy and wisdom. She looked upon him in wonder. It was rare to see such a mix in an Elf's face. Most were too weary of Arda to look so happy and peaceful.

"If they are treated well," the Elf answered. His clothes, although practical for the task, were noble finery. "Their time in Mordor was not kind to them. These horses remember the fear of they carried since they were foals. It will take time."

"They once knew the plains of Riddermark." Éowyn said. The horse reared again, its forelegs aiming for the Elf. But the Lord shifted away and grabbed the horse by the mane and continued to speak calmly in his own tongue.

"I am sure. These horses were stolen from your people."

"You have a gentle hand on them."

"I thank you. It is nothing but a compliment from someone who belongs to the people of horses. I look after horses when I am free from my duties."

"How do you know that I am of Rohan?" She asked him. The Elf Lord gave a small measure of smile.

"No other woman will carry herself so proudly. And you have the fair hair and a thin build of your people. Tell me, how difficult was it to follow your men to the battlefield and await their return in your camps once the battle was done?" The Elf-Lord bent down and ran his hands over the black stallion's legs, murmuring softly. The stallion shifted uneasily, blowing hard through his nostrils. Éowyn squared her shoulders and tilted back her chin.

"Do you think I am someone's wife or lover? I joined the men on the battlefield."

The Elf's hands stopped so suddenly that Éowyn half-feared he turned into a statue made of stone. Then he straightened and looked at her with surprise and renewed interest.

"Did you, now?" The Elf said thoughtfully. He walked around her in a half-circle, like a predator circling his prey. Éowyn followed him carefully. For some reason, she felt no fear or wariness as the Elf watched her. "Tell me, are you the White Lady of Rohan, the one they call Éowyn?"

"Indeed I am."

The Elf smiled so warmly that Éowyn was surprised.

"And who might you be?" Éowyn asked.

"I am the one who prophesised the death of Witch-king will be by the hand of no man or elf." He said simply. He bowed low out of respect and walked away. Éomer came.

"Who is he, brother?"

"Lord Glorfindel, sister. One of the great Elven warriors of history."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Another take on how Eowyn met Glorfindel.


	98. Glorfindel 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Glorfindel**

Glorfindel sometimes felt that his fame and his renowned feats left him badgered constantly by young Elves. He could not blame them. They enjoyed his company, looked up to him.

They were also very gullible.

"I have found," Glorfindel once said to the young recruits in a solemn voice, "that if you hang upside down from a metal frame, it sends blood to your brain and makes you far more skilled in strategy and logic."

He suppressed a smile when Erestor shot him a disapproving look.

He genuinely laughed when he found all the soldiers hanging upside down the next morning.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

We all have that one older, experienced person who likes to pull someone's leg...


	99. Faramir 5

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **five** updates before this.

* * *

 **Faramir**

He tolerated many things with a smile and a laugh. Some hurled insults at his face. Others told him he was led about by his wife like cattle after their caretaker. Still others told him he was too kind and merciful. An iron fist was what he needed to rule his small domain. All of this he answered with a smile or a laugh.

But the sight of young foolish nobles singing ballads to Éowyn, written specifically to praise her attributed brought forth an emotion he never knew before. It ate him and he struggled to control it. Sometimes he succeeded, other times he didn't. When he didn't, the young nobles found themselves in dangerous positions that demanded their presence elsewhere. Many left Éowyn alone after that, much to her surprise.

"Have you attempted something?" She asked him finally, perplexed.

"I may have reminded them of their duties, instead of loitering about near other men's wives." He said gruffly. Éowyn stared.

"You were... Jealous?"

Faramir looked away, but not before she caught an uncertain look.

"Of course I was." He muttered.

Éowyn looked at her husband for a long moment and then she laughed merrily.

"Good," she said with a caressing hand over his face. "That means I will be forgiven if I do not take any lady watching you, kindly."

Faramir smiled.

"One of the benefits of having a wife," he whispered, "is to have her keep other unwanted advances at bay."

They both laughed.


	100. Aragorn 4

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **six** updates before this.

* * *

 **Aragorn**

He lay on his back and thought about all things cold in an attempt to trick his mind. The summer struck Minas Tirith and left the days unusually hot. What was more; the marble now thirstily drank the heat, turning the interior into a blistering furnace. At night, there was no respite. The heat remained, slowly disappeared until the morning and increasing again when the sun rose.

"It's too hot," Arwen murmured. He sympathised her. His poor wife enjoyed the cool summer and colder winter of Lórien and Rivendell.

"I know." Aragorn said wearily. Sleep would not come to him. Not in this weather.

"I would like to hug you, dear husband." Arwen admitted. "But this heat does not make me eager for any proximity."

Aragorn laughed.

"I can say that the feeling is quite mutual." He confessed, earning a laugh from her. They fell into a long silence until they individually drifted off to sleep.

They did not sleep close together, but their feet were slightly touching each other throughout the night.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

We reached 100 drabbles! Yay!

Can we like... take the reviews up to 500? *makes wide puppy eyes* Puh-lease?


	101. Elfwine 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **seven** updates before this.

* * *

 **Elfwine**

He knew it had to happen sometime, but he didn't realise it happened so soon.

Eldarion stood before him. He was not young; rather he was preserved. The height of his brow was the same as the prime of his youth. His hair was still as black as a raven's wing, only a little shaggier now that he wore it long. He was still fit and lean. The only things that changed were his eyes and his smile. Both lost a little bit of his innocent youth, as if he knew what had occurred.

Elfwine was not an old man, but he was not young either. His hair has wisps of white in them. There were wrinkles in the outer corners of his eyes. One or two age spots covered his hands. His lips were thinner and his nose was slightly thicker.

Elfwine searched his friend's eyes frantically, looking for answers. Eldarion smiled only a little.

"I warned you," Eldarion said softly. "I am meant to age slowly, with the blood of Elves in my veins."

Realising what it meant for their future as friends, and how Eldarion would outlive them all, Elfwine's defences crumbled.

Elfwine hugged his friend, kissed him on his forehead and wept.


	102. Lothiriel 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **eight** updates before this.

* * *

 **Lothíriel**

She loved her husband dearly even though it was a love hard won. He was her exact opposite in personality and habits, yet somehow they managed to remain in harmony besides it.

For example, she liked to sleep without covers and certainly without company.

He liked to cuddle.

It amused her when she was a new bride; her husband was so tall and so broad-chested that he cowed lesser men by a discouraging look and straight posture. But at night when they were alone, he only slept when he pulled her to his side and kept her there for the entire night. Not only was his grip unrelenting, he was also as hot as a blazing furnace. In summer heat, the effect was even more unwelcome. Sometimes he let her go reluctantly if she protested enough, only to wake up later in the night back in his arms.

So when he left for an important trip across Riddermark, Lothíriel eagerly awaited the first night of her freedom since their marriage.

Only to realise she couldn't sleep without her husband's company.


	103. Thranduil 10

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **nine** updates before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

"Would you care for a son or a daughter?"

Thranduil yawned widely and pulled his wife closer. Her swollen belly pressed against his side and their unborn child kicked him. Thranduil smiled even as his eyes drifted close.

"What would you like?" He murmured.

"A daughter, so that I can comb her hair and dress her in colourful clothes. Or perhaps a son to grow up just like his father. I can't decide."

Sleep slowly began to claim him, but that did not steal his ability to tease her.

"I shall endeavour to provide you with both."

His wife's laughter met his ears and his unborn child kicked him again as if in reproof.

"You're incorrigible." She murmured, curling up against him. Thranduil smiled and drifted off to sleep.


	104. Faramir 6

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **ten** updates before this.

* * *

 **Faramir**

He tugged on his wife's hands, eyes glittering in mischief. Éowyn resisted by digging her heels into the soft soil.

"No!" She exclaimed in a mixture of laughter and indignation. "I can't-"

"Aye, you can." He teased her. "Come. One dance. Then I shall leave you in peace."

"Faramir-"

Shieldmaiden she may be, but she underestimated Faramir's persistence. Faramir freed one of her hands and slung his hand around her waist. He carried her to the dance floor where many of the Ithilien Rangers danced with their wives. The air thrummed with the sound of steady drums and lively flutes.

"Faramir!"

"One dance!"

"You married a shieldmaiden, not a dancer." Éowyn told him when he set her on her feet in the middle of the dancing ground.

"You married a Steward, not a dancer," Faramir mimicked. "Have I not told you before that we are evenly matched because of our flaws?"

Faramir tugged her as the music began anew. This time, Éowyn's laughter followed them.


	105. Ivriniel 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **eleven** updates before this.

* * *

 **Ivriniel**

He was a dashing young man, Ivriniel thought. He was tall, broad-shouldered and as handsome as his father. Amrothos inherited not just his father's looks but also his charm. Worst of all, the youth knew it.

Ivriniel hid a smile as she studied his mischievous grin. The lad was preening under the appreciated looks ladies cast his way. He was also impatient to leave, no doubt from his aunt's dragon eye.

"Be safe." Ivriniel murmured to him. "And enjoy yourself in interlude. But mark my words, boy; if you bring a woman home heavy with child and unwed, I will make sure the stallion becomes a gelding."

Amrothos paled and grimaced. Behind her, Imrahil stifled a laugh.


	106. Lothiriel 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **twelve** updates before this.

* * *

 **Lothíriel**

He was intimidating man. Or rather, he was a large man. Lothíriel was tall herself, but she lacked the muscles and the personality to own the room as soon as she walked into one. Her husband commanded everyone's attention simply by being present.

He was a just ruler. He admitted his shortcomings freely and also took care not to repeat his mistakes. He listened carefully to the advisors who knew more about trade and farms. He was firm on his decisions, so it meant that he neither gullible nor a fool. Many praised him.

Yet very few noticed the lines of exhaustion on his face. He had dark circles underneath his eyes from lack of sleep and his lips had a characteristic dip from concern. Éowyn told her he barely had any time to mourn for the fallen, including his uncle and cousin. It made her heart ache for this stranger of a husband. He was not a love match and barely gave her much time, but he was gentle with her.

She decided to comfort him in little ways. The tapestries depicting great battles and war disappeared from his bedchamber, replaced by soothing sceneries instead. There was a pan of warm water always ready for him in the fireplace. There were refreshments always ready for consumption in between meeting for him. He never said a word and she never prodded him for praise. It was something she impulsively did. Her father once told her that a man felt well-loved from little things his wife did for him. Lothíriel strove for it.

And one day while she set aside a pitcher of water by his desk, Éomer surprised her by grabbing onto her hand and pressing a kiss on her palm.

"Thank you." He murmured. Gone were circles underneath his eyes. He looked much better than before, gaining some colour and flesh on his cheeks. Lothíriel smiled in answer.


	107. Eomer 2

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **thirteen** updates before this.

* * *

 **Éomer**

He pulled on his armour with practiced ease. It was heavy, often needing two people. But his rage lent him strength, his experience taught him to wrestle with all the ties and buckles.

"You are leaving again?"

"I have to." Éomer said curtly. "Rohan needs me."

"Rohan always needed you." The voice was wry. Then it grew more solemn. "But you can't charge out into the battlefield every single time. That isn't a wise decision."

Éomer jerked on his jerkin irritably.

"I am a king. A king of Rohan! If I do not show my courage to lead my people, then what will they think of me?"

"Are you sure it is courage leading you into battle? Or perhaps it is cowardice leading you to the only thing about kingship that is familiar to you."

Éomer slammed his fist into the stone wall. Pain blossomed through his fingers, seeping into his knuckles and pooling into his palm.

"Why do you care?" He hissed.

"I care because I was the one who taught you how to fight when you were a lad. I also told you that your rage in battle will kill you someday. Is that what you want? Death?"

"Of course I do." Éomer whispered. "Death stole those whom I love and threatened to take my sister. Death is the only escape I have now from this burden I bear."

His companion's voice was soft but condemning.

"I would not have chosen death."

"I know you wouldn't" Éomer spat. "I am not you, Théodred!" He turned around. His dead cousin stood behind him.

Théodred smiled brokenly. He was dressed in his own armour, blood spattered and armour broken where the Orc had dealt a mortal blow which took his life.

"You are not." Théodred acknowledged. "But when do you intend to realise that?"

Éomer glared at him.

"What are you talking about?" He demanded. Théodred slowly smiled. His teeth were stained with congealed blood.

"You need to confess your sins, cousin. Either admit that you were slow to come to my aid, or accept your new position as king." Théodred murmured. Éomer squeezed his eyes shut and looked away. "But then, don't. You will join me soon."

Éomer's eyes burst wide open. He yelled and grabbed his sword. He tossed it at Théodred with a war cry. The sword clattered against the wall and fell on the ground.

Éomer blinked slowly, feeling his anger disappear. Théodred was gone. He was alone, accompanied only with his grief and rage. Éomer collapsed on his knees, buried his face in his hands and wept.


	108. Denethor 3

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **fourteen** updates before this.

* * *

 **Denethor**

As each year of his full manhood passed by, his father grew more and more insistent upon his marriage.

Denethor was not keen on marriage. It was partly because he felt he was still young, and partly because he did not wish to take on the responsibility of a family when so much in Gondor demanded his attention. So he answered all his father's attempts with a small smile and occasional humour.

Until one day, when his father suddenly came upon him from behind while he sat and read reports. He squeezed his strong shoulders.

"These are made for a child to ride them." Ecthelion said with a fatherly smile.

Suddenly, a raw desire woke deep within him. A strong urge to have a child; to nurture and watch him or her grow.

Denethor's thoughts turned from Gondor to somewhere far closer.


	109. Orc

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **fifteen** updates before this.

* * *

 **Orc**

He saw the she-Elves, all bright and fair. It made his eyes burn from their light. Still, he kept his gaze upon them.

They sat upon the stones of the river, the hens of their gowns soaking wet. They sang sweet songs while two of them played the harp and a flute. He listened carefully, remembering things he buried deep within his broken mind. Light. Laughter. White jewels.

Then the shout to charge forward and show no mercy came. The memories that sprouted from the song withered and died.

He aimed his crossbow and yelled.


	110. Woman

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **sixteen** updates before this.

* * *

 **Woman**

She knew not what to say. So she kept her silence. She folded her hands before her and let the wind blowing around Meduseld toy with her hair. It irritated her eyes but she did not care.

Éomer stood before her, facing the wide plains.

"I am sorry," Éomer said quietly.

"Your apology will not bring him back." She answered dully. There was a time when she danced and her heart was light and free. Now she felt... cold. Unfeeling. Dead. "The same way it will not bring my heart to life."

Éomer turned and looked at her compassionately.

"My lady," he began.

"Please," she whispered. "Leave me be."

Éomer closed his mouth and nodded. He bowed slightly.

"Théodred loved you dearly." He said. "He told me he planned to wed you upon his return."

She waited until his quiet footsteps receded. Then she wept.


	111. Thranduil 11

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **seventeen** updates before this.

It's the last one, I promise. Thranduil wanted to come in too. :P

* * *

 **Thranduil**

He peered outside the window, watching his son walk through the inner Halls with his friend. Gimli was instantly recognisable with his short, broad stature. Something that Gimli said made Legolas laugh merrily. The sound wafted up to his window.

"Strange, that," the Dwarf remarked beside him. His hair was as white as snow. Although his face was a map of wrinkles, the Dwarf was still remarkable hale. "I never expected to see something light that."

"Neither have I," Thranduil admitted. He was cynical; he waited with bated breath for something to grow wrong but the friendship between Legolas and Gimli seemed to be as strong and enduring as Arda itself.

"Perhaps it is for the best. The young can teach us old creatures many things."

"I am not old," Thranduil said.

Glóin laughed and Thranduil realised he was being mocked. Thranduil only smiled in answer.


	112. Elrond 6

**Elrond**

The smile Elrond had upon his face as Bilbo stood proudly in the Hall of Fire soon faded as the Hobbit began to sing.

His father's name in the first verse made him wary, and then the verses following turned his heart heavy. Elrond's smile disappeared completely, and many would have noticed if he were sitting among his people. But his seat was near the back, underneath a canopy. Few paid attention to him while there was a song.

He listened to his father's great deeds, his valour and his courage. He closed his eyes briefly at the mention of the Silmaril and then shook his head at the mention of his mother.

When the song was done, Elrond kept his attention to his hands resting on his lap. He saw fingers brush against his elbow. Glorfindel sat beside him, who now leaned in.

"He means no harm." He said lowly. "A Hobbit knows not about the history of the world. In his way, he sought to honour you by singing about your parents."

"I know," Elrond said with a sigh. "He means no harm indeed. Few know my stance about my father's tale."

Glorfindel then remained silent for a long moment. Elrond turned his attention to the laughter between Bilbo and Lindir. The Hobbit ambled away with his young ward.

"Your father meant no harm as well. As did your mother," Glorfindel said later.

"In their minds, perhaps," Elrond said eventually. A new song rose, carved from sweet music. "Yet harm came. And when it did, my father was at sea and my mother sought to protect a stone in place of her sons. Do not ask me to forget that."

To that, Glorfindel had no reply.


	113. Thranduil 12

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **one** update before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

He looked upon his son and shook his head to himself. Legolas grew into the role of a responsible and serious leader. Yet he was still untried and inexperienced, viewing the world with innocent faith. It was time to harden him to the realities of life.

"Tell me," Thranduil said, gaining the attention of his son from where he stood by the open window. Sunlight turned Legolas' hair into shining gold. "If you were given the monarchy of this kingdom, how would you reign?"

First he saw surprise on Legolas' face, then disbelief. Rage followed quickly after.

"Do you plan to set sail, father?" Legolas asked stiffly. Thranduil narrowed his eyes at him. He was a gentler father than most, allowing Legolas to question him.

"I do not plan to," he answered. Legolas folded his arms.

"Then I see no reason to think about it," Legolas' tone was terse. He turned his head away and resumed looking out the window.

"But should anything happen to me-" Thranduil pressed. Legolas' reaction was far more explosive than before. He turned around, as a ready as a soldier facing an unpleasant enemy.

"Nothing will happen!" Legolas said angrily. But Thranduil knew better, for beneath the mantle of rage lay the crippling fear of loneliness and abandonment. Thranduil and Legolas had an unwavering relationship.

He got up to his feet fast and reached for his son. Legolas fought at first before giving into his embrace. Thranduil felt his son's hands tremble as he clutched on to his upper arms.

"Hush," Thranduil murmured. "I apologise."

"Why would you even-"

"It was nothing," Thranduil lied, turning in Legolas' embrace to look outside the window.

"Come," Thranduil continued. "I must see to this new prisoner Aragorn brought to me. Gollum, he called the creature."


	114. Thranduil 13

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **two** updates before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

"Mother?" Thranduil called softly into the dark room. He heard no answer but his senses told him she was awake. After a moment's hesitation, he stepped inside and threw open the curtains. He lit the lanterns around the room and opened the door and the windows to let in the fresh air.

Once the gloomy surroundings shifted to light and carefree, he turned his attention to the occupant in the bed. His mother barely moved. Instead, she stared unseeingly into space, her hands folded neatly on her lap. She remained that way for the past two weeks, stirring only to eat and to bathe. She refused to change, refused to move Oropher's things anywhere and refused to even speak to her own son.

Thranduil sat down on the edge of the bed.

"What are you doing, mother?" Thranduil asked softly. He tenderly brushed one hand over hers. She did not even acknowledge her presence. "You know, father asked me to look after you." Her lips twitched ever so slightly. "He worried for you. I suspect somewhere in his mind, he knew he was going to die." Her breathing grew more broken. "I cannot begin to understand the grief you have on father's passing but it is not good to waste away in anyone's memory." He paused. "Father wouldn't have wanted it."

Her eyes filled with bushes tears even as she stared ahead. Her lips were tightly pursed. Emotion. At last. Thranduil patted her hand one last time and dropped a kiss on her forehead before leaving her to privacy.

The first tears were hardest to shed. The rest only brought healing.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

There is a lack of discussion of female characters that are left behind, or the ones who are mentioned but were not given much detail in Tolkien's world. So I am enjoying some creativity here. I might explore such relationships again.


	115. Gimli

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **three** updates before this.

* * *

 **Gimli**

When Legolas came to the Glittering Caves, he stayed for many days under the mountain. Sometimes he stayed for more than a month.

Gimli often wondered what drove his friend to stay so long. He also wondered uncomfortably if it was because of him. He once awkwardly asked Legolas if he would be more comfortable staying in Helm's Deep where sunlight and fresh air was plenty but the Elf bluntly refused.

Still, his worries were not laid to rest. He knew how much Legolas disliked caves. He craved the company of trees, besides his wish to venture over the Sea.

An idea began to form and soon after his hands followed. There was an untouched pillar of stone, waiting for inspiration to create the final design upon it. Gimli sat to work on it. Chip by chip, one tool after another, he began to form indentations, resembling a tree. He carved out the roots disappearing into the stone floor. Then standing upon a sturdy ladder, he began to work on its branches.

It was a year and half worth of project. With the help of his son, he shaped leaves out of emeralds and used golden vines wrapped around the tree to hang them.

When Legolas came in his next visit, he stood underneath the tree and marvelled its design. Gimli watched his hand run along the bark, his eyes blinking as he stared up at the green leaves. He did not tell him that he was the craftsman.

Legolas finally looked at him with a warm smile.

"Thank you," he said. It was the highest praise anyone could give. He bowed his head.


	116. Healer

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **four** updates before this.

* * *

 **Healer**

An Elf lay on the pallet of the tent. He bled profusely from his side. His skin was pale and his breathing was shallow. His black braided hair was strewn across the pallet.

"I know nothing about an Elf and his body." He said, appalled. But the captain who brought him in was impatient.

"He looks like a man so I assume his insides are the same as well." The captain said irritably. Then he softened. "Keep him alive long enough. I have sent for someone to come for him." He nodded and knelt by the Elf. His armour already lay discarded in the corner of his tent. The Elf wore a simple linen shirt and trousers. He dug into his side and found a shattered piece, presumably from a sword or a dagger.

"Alright," he said shakily. "I hate to say this, but this is probably going to-"

The Elf screamed as he grasped the edge of the shard and pulled it free in a single brisk motion.

"-hurt," he finished.

The Elf breathed rapidly. Sweat appeared on his brow. The healer studied the wound; it was not deep but it bled profusely. And the wound had an ugly tinge. It was poisoned.

"I am so sorry." The healer whispered. He looked down at the bloodied shard in his hand. "I shouldn't have- not when there is no-"

The Elf placed a hand on his shoulder, startling him. When he looked up, the Elf saw him with surprisingly clear eyes.

"Come and sit by me," he whispered. "And let me tell you a tale. I fear we must... we must distract ourselves from the failures of today."

The healer listened as the Elf wove a beautiful story, about a land beyond the Sea where there was no grief or pain. The Elf's hand in his own was weakening. He sunk into unconsciousness and came up again.

"Master healer," the Elf whispered. "There is something you need to do for me. I fear I do not have much time left."

The healer felt tears in his eyes. Perhaps it was from the stress of the war. Or perhaps it was the sight of someone so proud and immortal dragged to a death's door.

"I will do as you ask." He said. The Elf squeezed his hand.

"Truly?" The Elf murmured. "It is a matter of great secrecy. None must know of it. You must do it yourself."

"I will do it." The healer said readily. The Elf smiled a little.

"And they say that healers have no spine." The Elf's voice contained dry humour. He raised the hand that the healer held. "Take it."

Right before his eyes, a ring appeared on the Elf's first finger. Its blue gem shone brightly in the dim light. Entranced, the healer slowly eased it off his finger.

"Take this, to an Elf named Elrond. He belongs to the army of King Gil-Galad." The Elf's eyes fluttered close and his breathing grew more strained. He was clinging on to life only to give his message. "Tell him that... It's not his fault. I wouldn't listen."

The Elf exhaled and did not breathe again. The healer stared at his face before pulling his hand out of the Elf's loose grip. He closed his eyes with shaking fingers. Then he cupped the ring in his hands and sat silently in vigil. The healers probably needed him, but he did not wish to leave the Elf. Not just yet.

When the flap of the tent lifted, he raised his head wearily. The newcomer's garb, his bright eyes and untimely face gave him away.

"You're too late," the healer whispered to the Elf. "He's gone."

The Elf looked at the body and choked on a sob.

"Gil-Galad!" He cried, reaching his side. Falling to his knees, the Elf wept. The healer looked away. It seemed wrong to witness an emotion so raw coming from people who seemed... untouchable.

At last the Elf rose and dried his tears. He looked at the healer.

"Were you with him in his final hours?" He asked quietly. The healer nodded vigorously.

"He said something. He wanted me to find an Elf by the name of Elrond." He said in a rush. The Elf's face became grave.

"I am Elrond."

"Oh?" He said stupidly. Then he pushed his fingers clumsily into his pocket and withdrew the ring. "He wanted you to have this. He said... he said he was sorry. It wasn't your fault. And that he wasn't the one to listen."

Elrond's eyes became wet again as he stared at the ring in his hand. For a long while he awkwardly stood there with his palm outstretched. Finally, Elrond took the ring. The healer felt as if a large weight lifted off his shoulder.

"That's not ordinary, is it?" The healer whispered, looking at the small trinket.

"Nay, it is not." Elrond said in equally hushed tones. "And it is best not to make mention of it to anyone else."

The healer nodded jerkily and fled the tent.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

*hides behind a rock* Well... um... realistically, soldiers die anywhere and rather unceremoniously...


	117. Eomer 3

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **five** updates before this.

* * *

 **Éomer**

Éomer sat by the window and slowly reached out with a hand. Light from the sun played across his skin. It warmed his hand and made his scars, calluses and weather worn skin even more prominent.

"Brother?"

Éomer did not turn his head to acknowledge his sister.

"It is a trifle thing," he murmured. "Freedom is something we take for granted, but we yearn for more than the air we breathe." Having just been released for captivity after Gandalf freed his uncle from his cursed state, Éomer relished freedom. Éowyn came to stand beside him. She was as grim as he. Often, he wished he sheltered are the same like other women so that she be merrier. But fate was unkind.

"I understand," Éowyn said solemnly, her hands clasped together. She did indeed, just like all man and boy gathering for the war. Surely if the Rohirrim understood anything, it was the importance of freedom.


	118. Thranduil 14

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **six** updates before this.

* * *

 **Thranduil**

He found Legolas precisely where Galion said he would be. It was a small ledge in a wall of his halls, not far from his son's rooms. For a grown Elf, it was impossible to duck into the small space for a small child like Legolas it was perfect.

At the moment, Thranduil's height was a disadvantage.

He stood for a moment, uncertain while Legolas curled into the ledge with his back towards him, crying and sniffling. His son was never wept, treating most of his injuries as trophies from an adventure. Thranduil knelt and gently placed his hand on Legolas' shoulder.

"Come on, now," Thranduil crooned. He tugged a little. Legolas resisted, shrugging off his hand. Thranduil murmured soothingly until Legolas ceased to resist. Then he pulled him out and hugged him tightly against his chest.

"Hush, my little one," Thranduil murmured. "Where are they? I found them not in your room."

Legolas opened his palms. Two small fledgelings lay there, one on each hand. They looked asleep, but Thranduil knew better when he saw their unmoving bodies. Legolas found an abandoned nest with these two the prior evening. He brought them back. Thranduil took one look and knew the early winter frost already claimed them. There was no hope for survival.

"Why couldn't I save them?" Legolas whispered, tears still running down his cheeks.

"Sometimes, matters are not ours to handle," Thranduil replied gently. "They were beyond saving, my son."

"I had to try."

"I know."

"If I tried harder-"

"Do not think that way." Thranduil said, stroking back the few strands that stubbornly clung to Legolas' eyes. "It is time, my son that you learned you are not the cure for all that ails this world. Some things shall never change, and amongst those things is the power over death. You could not have saved these birds if Eru willed away their lives."

"But is it not our purpose to try? What then, will remain of hope?"

Legolas' gentle, childlike heart tugged on the strings of Thranduil's scarred and withered one. How long had it been since he hoped and dreamed so freely? His cynical view about a dark world now shattered when he looked through the eyes of his son.

Overcome with love, Thranduil gathered his son in his arms and held him close to his chest.

"You, my son, are a blessing," Thranduil whispered in Legolas' ear.


	119. Grima 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **seven** updates before this.

* * *

 **Gríma**

He had honour once.

He had comrades. A king to serve. Land. Name. Wealth. It was true he did not conquer the woman he desired but he held all else in his two hands.

Now all of that was lost. What will happen now that he was dying? He will face judgement, surely for his actions. He nearly tore Rohan apart and destroyed it for ambition. Despair settled into him as life bled from his wound.

Aye, he was truly lost now.


	120. Boromir 1

**Author's Note:**

You may have missed **eight** updates before this.

* * *

 **Boromir**

She stood beneath the canopy of ribbons and flowers with the rest of the girls. She was barefooted, her skirts just above her ankles. She wore no ornaments save for the garland on her hand. The young woman was small, slightly plump and with long dark brown hair. She passed easy smiles to all those who greeted her.

Out of politeness, he approached her not himself. Instead, he sent Faramir to offer her a bracelet of freshly picked flowers to go with her crown.

Faramir returned laughing, the bracelet still in his hand.

"What did she say?" Boromir asked, his eyes still on the woman.

"She said that she is flattered but she will not accept the bracelet out of respect to your title." Faramir laughed again. Boromir now looked at the woman again, fascinated. She turned to him at last, smiled and bowed her head.

"Charming," Boromir murmured.

"Will you go talk to her?" Faramir asked, holding out the bracelet. Boromir accepted it and shook his head with a sigh.

"I am afraid I cannot," Boromir said. "I must retire for I leave early tomorrow. Perhaps when I will return, I will pursue her. Go and find her name, if she will give it."

Faramir complied.

The woman did give her name.


End file.
